LIBRARY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


PAXCIIA. 


See  page  r>9. 


^TORIES  OF 

OLD  NEW  SPAIN 


BY 

THOMAS  A.  JANVIER 

AUTHOR  OF  COLOR  STUDIES,  THE~A"ZTEC  TREASURE-HOUSE, 
THE  MEXICAN  GUIDE 


E  los  mandamientos  de  la  Justicia,  e  del  derecho  son  tres.  El  primero 
es,  que  ome  biua  honestamente,  quanto  en  si.  El  segundo,  que  non  faga 
mal,  nin  dano  a  otro.  El  tercero,  que  de  su  derecho  a  cada  vno.  E  aquel 
que  cumple  estos  mandamientos  faze  lo  que  deue  a  Dios. 

ALONZO  EL  SABIO,    Terccra  partida,  Titulo  II,  Ley  Hi. 


NEW    YORK 
D.     APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1891 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


TO 

C.   A.   J. 


2200586 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS 7 

NINITA 35 

PAXCHA  :  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY 59 

THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN 95 

THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH 126 

A  MEXICAN  NIGHT 160 

LA  MINA  DE  Los  PADRES 187 

SAINT  MART  OF  THE  ANGELS 212 

THE  LEGEND  OF  PADRE  JOSE  .  313 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS. 

HE  who  goes  westward  from  the  City  of  Mexico 
goes  out  by  the  gate  of  the  Tlaxpana,  and  BO  along  the 
causeway  to  Tacuba ;  the  very  path  over  which  the 
Spaniards  passed,  leaving  many  killed  and  of  the  living 
nearly  all  being  sore  wounded,  when  they  fled  from 
the  city  that  dismal  night  more  than  three  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago. 

But  this  now  is  a  very  pleasant  path  ;  for  on  the 
right  and  on  the  left  of  it  are  fertile  fields  and  trimly 
kept  gardens,  and  shading  it  are  many  great  green 
trees.  And  only  a  little  way  out  upon  it  is  the  village 
of  San  Antonio,  built  of  gray-brown  adobe  on  the  level 
land  beside  the  causeway,  and  peopled  by  certain  rag 
ged,  uncared-for,  easy-going  descendants  of  the  race 
that  now  serves  where  once  it  ruled. 

The  wayfaring  stranger  who  loves  a  dish  of  friendly 
talk  with  chance  acquaintances — and  the  wayfaring 
stranger  not  thus  socially  disposed  will  find  all  lands 
barren,  and  will  come  again  to  his  own  land  not  one 


8  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

whit  the  wiser  of  the  world  than  when  he  left  his  home 
• — will  rest  awhile  in  this  village  to  chat  with  whomso 
ever  it  may  please  Heaven  to  send  him  to  hold  converse 
with.  Nor  need  he  fear  that  Heaven  will  not  pro 
vide  him  with  a  talking-mate.  Let  him  but  seat  him 
self  beneath  one  of  the  great  trees  beside  the  roadway, 
and  presently  a  stray  old  man  will  pause  to  pass  a 
greeting  with  him;  then  a  vendor  of  earthen  pots, 
coming  in  from  some  outlying  village  to  the  city  to  sell 
his  wares,  will  halt  his  donkey — on  whose  patient  back 
the  great  red  pots  are  high  heaped  up — and  will  ask  in 
a  gentle  voice  for  a  light  for  his  corn-husk  cigarito  j 
an  old  woman  will  hobble  up  and  say  a  friendly  word 
or  two  ;  a  young  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  will 
edge  out  shyly  from  a  near-by  doorway,  and  so  stand 
modestly  aside,  but  ready  to  add  her  contribution  to 
the  conversation  when  it  shall  become  a  little  more 
general  and  when  amicable  relations  with  the  stranger 
shall  become  a  little  more  assured ;  then  another  old 
man  or  two  will  join  the  group,  accepting  with  a  grave 
courtesy  the  offered  cigarito  •  a  lazy  young  fellow  with 
baskets  to  sell,  but  with  no  apparent  desire  to  sell 
them,  will  seat  himself  near ;  and  outside  of  all  will  be 
a  light  fringe  of  pernicious  ragged  little  boys.  And  all 
of  these  simple-hearted  folk  presently  will  be  as  frank 
and  as  friendly  as  though  they  had  known  their  chance 
acquaintance  all  their  lives. 

It  will  be  in  such  wayside  talk  as  this  that  the 
stranger  alone  will  learn — for  in  books  he  will  look  for 
it  in  vain — the  story  of  the  little  church  that  once  stood 
hereabout;  of  the  very  little  convent  there  was  ad 
joining  it ;  of  the  two  Franciscan  friars  who  ministered 


SAX  ANTONIO   OF   THE   GARDENS.  9 

in  the  church,  dwelling  in  the  convent,  and  whose 
earthly  possessions  (and  these  but  held  in  trust  from 
Heaven)  were  a  little  garden,  and  the  doves  which  had 
built  nests  in  a  corner  of  the  convent,  and  a  certain, 
grave,  black  cat,  and  a  lame  and  very  lazy  ass. 

It  was  all  in  the  far-back  time  when  the  Spanish 
viceroys  were  the  rulers  of  Mexico ;  when  the  fleet 
sailed  once  a  year  from  Cadiz  westward,  and  once  a 
year  sailed  eastward  from  Yera  Cruz  laden  deep  with 
silver  from  the  mines ;  when  hushed  voices  still  told  in 
horror  of  great  cruelties  done  by  the  fierce  Chicheme- 
cas  to  frontier  adventurers  into  the  region  north  of 
Queretaro ;  and  when  the  good  fathers,  setting  death 
and  torture  at  defiance  that  God's  work  might  be  done 
by  them,  still  were  busy  sending  out  their  holy  missions 
for  the  saving  of  heathen  souls.  The  Viceroy  in  those 
days  was  the  illustrious  Don  Antonio  Sebastian  de  To 
ledo,  Marques  de  Mancera ;  who  came  into  the  capital 
of  his  vice-kingdom  and  there  assumed  the  duties  of  his 
high  office  in  the  month  of  October  in  the  year  1664. 

About  this  time  it  was  that  in  the  convent  of  San 
Antonio  de  Padua— that  in  a  little  time  came  to  be 
known  only  as  San  Antonio  of  the  Gardens,  because 
hereabout,  then  as  now,  the  fertile  land  was  laid  out  in 
many  little  gardens  which  the  Indians  tilled  —  there 
dwelt  the  two  brothers  Antonio  and  Inocencio.  Fray 
Inocencio  was  a  short  and  round  and  plump-cheeked, 
ruddy  little  man,  and  Fray  Antonio  was  very  tall  and 
thin  and  pale.  These  brothers  were  vowed  to  the  Ilule 
of  St.  Francis,  and  until  ordered  hither  for  the  cure  of 
Indians'  souls  the  great  convent  of  San  Francisco  in  the 


10  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

City  of  Mexico  had  been  their  home.  A  wonderful 
change  it  was  for  them  when  they  came  out  from  that 
"  vast  bee-hive  of  holiness " — as  the  convent  of  San 
Francisco  is  called  by  a  chronicler  of  the  time — to 
dwell  in  a  convent  whereof  they  were  the  only  inhab 
itants,  and  the  extent  of  which,  not  counting  the  tiny 
sacristy  of  their  tiny  church,  was  just  a  little  refectory, 
that  also  was  a  kitchen,  and  two  cells.  Yet  had  it  been 
the  size  of  a  city  they  scarcely  could  have  been  more 
elated  by  their  translation  ;  for  whereas  in  the  great 
convent  they  were  but  two  brothers  among  hundreds, 
with  many  above  them  in  degree,  here  they  were  every 
thing  themselves — free  to  divide  between  them  the 
whole  range  of  the  conventual  offices,  from  that  of  Por- 
tero  up  to  that  of  Guardian. 

As  they  stood  for  the  first  time  alone  together  in 
the  little  garden,  the  door  behind  them  that  opened 
upon  the  causeway  being  closed  and  barred,  and  as  the 
knowledge  of  the  absolute  power  that  was  theirs  in  this 
their  kingdom  came  into  their  hearts,  Fray  Inocencio, 
who  was  of  a  lively  disposition  and  very  quick  to  give 
animated  expression  to  his  thoughts,  skipped  in  a  most 
carnal  fashion ;  and  still  more  carnally  stood  for  an 
appreciable  length  of  time  upon  one  leg  while  he  held 
the  other  leg  in  the  air. 

Fray  Antonio,  whose  mind  was  of  a  graver  and  more 
temperate  cast,  looked  upon  this  exhibition  of  worldly 
pride  sorrowfully,  but  not  reproachfully.  Weakness 
of  the  flesh  was  Fray  Inocencio's  besetting  sin ;  but 
he  knew  his  weakness,  and  when  he  failed  to  overcome 
it  he  expiated  it  by  penance  and  sought  remission  of  it 
in  prayer.  This  was  known  to  Fray  Antonio,  and  so 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  H 

was  his  loving,  gentle  soul  the  less  disposed  to  manifest 
by  outward  sign  his  inward  sorrow  when,  as  now,  his 
brother  lapsed  from  grace. 

In  the  darkness  that  night  Fray  Antonio  heard  the 
sound  of  scourging  in  Fray  Inocencio's  cell,  and  in  the 
morning  the  usually  ruddy  cheeks  of  the  little  round 
brother  were  pale  and  his  eyes  were  dull ;  but  peace 
rested  on  him,  for  he  felt  that  through  the  sacrifice  of 
the  flesh  the  sin  of  the  flesh  had  been  expiated,  and  so 
his  spirit  was  at  rest. 

When  the  mass  which  they  celebrated  together  was 
ended,  and  they  had  come  into  the  refectory  to  make 
and  to  drink  their  chocolate,  he  said  simply,  as  he  stood 
beside  the  fireplace,  stirring  the  chocolate  in  its  earthen 
pot :  "  God  brings  the  least  deserving  of  us,  brother, 
into  the  high  places  of  the  earth  ;  but  he  loves  best 
those  who,  though  thus  exalted,  still  serve  him  humbly. 
We  have  only  to  seek  his  aid,  and  of  his  strength  he 
will  so  arm  our  weakness  that  we  may  prevail  over  the 
sin  that  shows  itself  in  carnal  pride." 

The  gentle  eyes  of  Fray  Antonio  rested  lovingly 
upon  Fray  Inocencio,  and  in  them  shone  the  light  of 
a  comforting  and  sustaining  trust  as  he  answered, 
"  Brother,  the  grace  of  God  ever  is  greater  than  our 
sins."  jSTor  did  the  thought  at  all  enter  his  simple  soul 
—as  assuredly  it  would  have  entered  a  soul  in  which 
there  had  been  even  the  very  least  of  worldly  guile — 
that  other  than  a  serious  meaning  could  attach  to  Fray 
Inocencio's  reference  to  the  exaltation  of  their  estate. 
Thus  ever  did  Fray  Antonio  help  and  strengthen  Fray 
Inocencio  with  a  sweet  and  holy  love :  and  many  needs 
had  Fray  Inocencio  of  such  comforting,  for,  the  flesh 


12  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

proverbially  being  weak  in  little  round  and  ruddy  men, 
the  seasons  were  sadly  short  in  which  he  had  not  some 
misdeed  of  his  unruly  nature  to  bemoan. 

In  all  seasons  a  heavy  burden  rested  upon  Fray  Ino- 
cencio's  soul  because  he  was  so  ruddy  and  so  fat.  This 
corporal  affliction,  sadly  unseemly  in  one  vowed  to  the 
austerities  of  the  religious  life,  was  of  such  a  nature 
that  abstinence  had  no  effect  upon  it  and  for  the  re 
moval  of  it  even  prayer  was  without  avail ;  so  that 
what  little  solace  his  case  allowed  him  was  to  be  got  by 
regarding  his  fatness  as  a  cross  put  upon  him  for  his 
soul's  sake,  warning  him  to  eat  little  and  so  to  mortify 
the  flesh  that  good  might  come  to  him  in  the  end.  Yet 
was  this  a  hard  cross  for  Fray  Inocencio  to  bear ;  for 
he  had  a  very  eager  natural  love,  as  strong  as  it  was 
sinful,  for  all  manner  of  toothsome  things.  Especially 
had  he  a  most  passionate  fondness  for  beans  \vhich  after 
being  well  boiled  were  fried  delicately  in  lard — which 
dish  was  not  less  delicious  than  it  was  damnably  fatten 
ing.  Most  pathetic  was  his  look  of  resignation  when 
beans  thus  cooked  were  served  in  the  refectory  of  the 
great  convent  of  San  Francisco,  as  he  resisted  their  suc 
culent  temptation  and  ate  instead  the  little  dry  cakes  of 
corn -meal. 

In  the  convent  of  San  Antonio  of  the  Gardens  Fray 
Inocencio  was  spared  the  temptation  of  fried  beans,  for 
Fray  Antonio,  that  his  brother  might  not  be  led  into 
sin,  declared  that  he  preferred  his  beans  boiled.  And 
more  than  this  did  Fray  Antonio  do  for  his  brother's 
comforting.  Being  himself  by  nature  a  most  abstemi 
ous  man,  with  no  liking  for  food  save  as  a  means  of 
sustaining  his  life  and  strength  in  God's  service,  he  de- 


SAX  AXTOXIO   OF  THE   GARDENS.  13 

liberately  set  himself  to  eating  in  private  great  quan 
tities  of  all  manner  of  fattening  tilings ;  and  this  he  did 
to  the  end  that  by  rounding  out  his  own  leanness  he 
might  make  the  plumpness  of  Fray  Inocencio  easier  for 
him  to  bear.  But  beyond  throwing  into  disorder  by 
such  unwonted  quantities  of  rich  food  the  functions  of 
his  liver,  the  stuffing  that  Fray  Antonio  gave  himself 
produced  no  results.  Therefore,  being  as  yellow  as  an 
orange,  he  gladly  gave  over  his  strange  discipline. 
This  was  wise  of  him,  for  the  simple  truth  of  the  mat 
ter  was  that  it  pleased  God  that  one  of  these  brothers 
should  be  fat  and  that  the  other  should  be  thin  ;  and 
neither  of  them,  howsoever  he  might  strive,  the  one  by 
eating  too  little  and  the  other  by  eating  too  much,  could 
change  that  which  God  had  decreed. 

Though  thus  tried  in  flesh  and  in  spirit,  these  broth 
ers  were  very  happy  in  their  life  in  the  little  convent 
and  in  their  ministrations  of  the  sacred  offices  in  the 
little  church.  In  their  garden  they  tilled  the  earth  lov 
ingly,  taking  great  pleasure  in  its  sweet,  fresh  smell, 
and  in  the  bounteous  return  that  it  yielded  them.  Fray 
Inocencio  had  a  rare  knowledge  of  the  gardener's  craft, 
and  especially  had  he  a  relish  for  growing  such  vege 
tables  as  were  good  to  eat.  In  this  previcarious  form 
of  gluttony,  as  it  might  be  called,  he  did  not  deny  him 
self  ;  for,  setting  a  stout  guard  upon  the  cravings  of  his 
own  stomach,  he  carried  on  his  back  the  best  of  all  the 
good  things  which  lie  grew  to  the  great  convent :  where 
the  brothers,  less  scrupulous  than  himself,  ate  them  all 
with  a  prompt  avidity.  Fray  Antonio,  though  he  did 
his  share  of  work  in  the  kitchen-garden,  found  his 
pleasure  in  the  growing  of  beautiful  and  sweet-smelling 


14  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

flowers,  which  each  day  he  set  before  the  sacred  image 
of  the  great  San  Antonio  that  the  little  church  en 
shrined.  Sometimes  Fray  Antonio  fancied  that  as  he 
placed  upon  the  altar  dedicated  to  his  holy  namesake 
these  sweet  offerings  there  shone  upon  the  gentle  face 
of  the  saint  a  loving  smile.  Nor  would  such  miracle 
have  been  surprising,  for  this  very  image — as  the  chroni 
cler  Vetancurt  tells — had  raised  a  dead  child  to  life ! 
In  that  good  time  faith  was  a  living  principle  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  and  the  blessed  saints  graciously  requited 
the  trust  that  was  placed  in  them  by  working  many 
miracles.  It  is  not  so  in  these  evil  later  days. 

In  the  holy  work  that  was  set  them  of  saving  hea 
then  souls  the  brothers  ever  were  instant  and  zealous. 
Fray  Inocencio  assailed  the  devil  at  all  times  and  in  all 
places  with  a  stout  energy  that  was  in  keeping  with  the 
sturdiness  of  his  body  and  mind.  Indeed,  such  pictures 
as  this  plump  little  friar  drew  of  the  entire  devilishness 
of  a  very  personal  devil,  and  of  the  blazing  horrors  of 
a  most  real  hell,  sufficed  to  scare  many  an  Indian, 
though  through  all  his  life  set  firmly  in  the  wicked 
courses  of  idolatry,  into  the  saving  ways  of  Christian 
righteousness.  Fray  Antonio  was  less  successful  as  an 
exerciser,  but  his  gentle  words  and  great  tenderness  of 
heart  and  spirit  enabled  him  to  make,  perhaps,  more 
lasting  converts.  Through  the  ministrations  of  this 
good  brother  many  a  troubled  heathen  soul  was  set  at 
rest  in  Christain  holiness,  being  brought  happily  to 
grace  through  love. 

In  the  first  spring-time  that  the  brothers  dwelt  in 
the  little  convent  there  came  to  build  in  a  nook  of  the 
wall  above  the  garden  a  pair  of  doves.  These  Fray 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.       15 

Inocencio  took  under  his  especial  care;  giving  them 
grain  to  eat,  and  placing  for  them  in  the  garden  an 
earthen  vessel  full  of  water  wherefrom  they  could 
drink — even  as  the  blessed  Saint  Francis,  who  called  all 
living  creatures  his  brothers  and  sisters,  cherished  the 
doves  which  he  rescued  from  the  hands  of  the  fowler, 
and  took  to  dwell  with  him  in  the  convent  at  Ravac- 
ciano,  where  was  his  home.  And  the  doves,  recogniz 
ing  Fray  Inocencio's  friendliness,  soon  grew  so  tame 
that  they  would  come  and  eat  from  his  hand  and  would 
perch  upon  his  shoulders,  and  even  would  nestle  in  the 
hood  of  his  blue  gown.  From  year  to  year  they  in 
creased  in  number,  and  at  last  there  came  to  be  so 
many  of  them  that  the  good  brother  almost  would  be 
hidden  by  the  cloud  of  birds  surrounding  him.  The 
trust  which  these  little  creatures  placed  in  him  made 
him  the  more  earnestly  try  to  stifle  a  sinful  thought 
that  at  times  would  come  into  his  soul — how  good  they 
would  taste  in  a  pie  !  Once  in  his  unregenerate  youth, 
before  he  took  upon  him  the  vows  of  his  Order,  he  had 
eaten  a  pie  made  of  doves  ;  and  although  he  never 
yielded  to  the  temptation  that  assailed  him,  the  smell 
and  the  taste  of  that  pie  lingered  in  his  memory  and 
cruelly  tormented  him  to  his  dying  day. 

For  Fray  Antonio  dove-pie  had  no  temptations,  and 
the  doves  were  a  source  of  constant  pleasure  to  him,  for 
all  of  God's  creatures  he  loved.  In  the  quiet  of  the 
hot  noontime  there  was  a  restfulness  and  friendliness 
in  their  sweet  cooings  that  refreshed  him  as  he  sat 
meditating  in  the  dusky  coolness  of  his  cell ;  and  he 
found  not  less  pleasure  in  listening  as  they  rustled  and 
cooed  softly  to  each  other  in  their  nests,  after  the  curi- 


IQ  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ous  fashion  of  these  birds,  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 
But  Fray  Antonio  loved  the  doves  less  for  themselves 
than  because  they  were  the  beautiful  creatures  of  a 
Creator  who  did  all  things  well. 

A  source  of  constant  solicitude  to  Fray  Inocencio  in 
this  connection  was  the  possible  misconduct  of  another 
dependent  of  the  little  convent — a  certain  black  cat  that 
Fray  Inocencio  dearly  loved.  The  official  name  of  this 
cat  was  Timoteo ;  bestowed  upon  him  for  the  reason 
that  this  is  a  name  well-  suited  to  a  cat,  and  also  in  de 
risive  reprobation  of  that  schismatic  Monophysite  of 
Egypt,  who  in  the  fifth  century  usurped  the  Patriarch 
ate,  and  was  known  popularly  as  "  Timothy  the  Cat." 
It  was  the  fancy  of  Fray  Antonio  to  bestow  this  name 
upon  the  black  kitten  which  wandered  one  day  into  the 
convent,  and  which,  after  making  a  sniffing  exploration 
of  the  whole  of  the  small  establishment,  signified  his 
approval  of  it  and  of  its  inhabitants  by  accepting  Fray 
Inocencio's  offering  of  milk,  and  by  thereafter  settling 
himself  to  sleep  in  a  comfortable  fold  of  Fray  Ino 
cencio's  blue  gown. 

Fray  Antonio,  the  friend  and  intimate  of  the  schol 
arly  Fray  Agustin  de  Yetancurt  (who  at  that  very 
time  was  writing  his  chronicle,  El  Teatro  Americano, 
that  has  given  him  a  world-wide  fame),  was  himself  a 
learned  student  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church ;  and  he 
explained,  at  what  Fray  Inocencio,  whose  tastes  were 
not  scholarly,  considered  a  most  unnecessary  length, 
the  schism  that  the  false  Patriarch  known  as  "  Timothy 
the  Cat "  upheld,  and  that  the  General  Council  of  Chal- 
cedon  condemned.  Nor  did  Fray  Inocencio,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  approve  of  saddling  upon  a  kitten  of 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  17 

obviously  amiable  qualities  and  presumably  excellent 
parts  the  name  of  a  bogus  Patriarch,  who,  according  to 
Fray  Antonio's  own  showing,  was  an  outlaw  from  the 
Church,  a  usurper,  and  a  murderer.  Therefore  was 
Fray  Inocencio  well  pleased  when  the  kitten  developed 
a  power  of  purring  so  thunderously  (relatively  speak 
ing)  that  Fray  Antonio  fell  into  the  way  of  speaking  of 
him  as  Susurro — which  word,  in  the  Spanish  tongue, 
signifies  the  Purrer — and  thus  himself  provided  an  ac 
ceptable  substitute  for  what  any  self-respecting  cat 
could  not  but  regard  as  a  highly  objectionable  name. 

Of  a  certainty  Fray  Inocencio  never  knew  that  Su 
surro  ate  doves  ;  but  lie  had  painful  suspicions.  There 
were  times  and  seasons  when  Susurro  would  retire  to 
the  roof  of  the  convent  as  though  for  the  purpose  of 
sunning  himself.  Yet  with  such  ostentation  was  this 
purpose  manifested,  that  not  unreasonably  doubts  as  to 
the  purity  of  his  motives  and  intentions  might  be  en 
tertained.  As  he  would  lie  basking  in  the  sunshine,  his 
fore-paws  tucked  comfortably  beneath  his  breast,  and 
his  long  black  tail  stretching  out  straight  behind  him, 
Fray  Inocencio  more  than  once  was  pained  by  observ 
ing  a  swaying  of  that  same  tail  and  a  twitching  of  his 
black  ears,  and  also  a  certain  look  of  eagerness  that  in 
unguarded  moments  would  come  into  his  half-closed 
great  yellow  eyes— all  of  which  seemed  to  betray  the 
existence  in  some  dark  corner  of  his  mind  of  thoughts 
the  like  of  which  no  honest  cat  should  have. 

Fray  Inocencio  sorely  was  pained  by  these  sugges 
tions  on  Susurro's  part  of  a  tendency  toward  what, 
under  the  circumstances,  would  be  nothing  short  of 
mortal  sin.  In  the  simplicity  of  his  nature  he  made 
2 


18  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

especial  prayer  to  the  miracle-working  image  of  San 
Antonio  that  Susurro  might  be  given  strength  to  resist 
the  temptation  that  beset  him,  and  that  so  the  doves 
might  go  unharmed.  And  to  Fray  Antonio  he  told 
that  he  had  made  his  prayer. 

Now  in  the  gentle  nature  of  Fray  Antonio  there 
was  a  strain  of  kindly  whimsicalness — the  same  that 
had  led  him  to  bestow  upon  the  stranger  kitten  the 
name  of  the  Egyptian  Patriarch — and  this  noAv  moved 
him  to  take  the  case  of  the  cat  and  the  doves  into  his 
own  hands.  Therefore  it  was  that  when  a  convenient 
season  occurred — Fray  Inocencio  having  gone  with  a 
back-load  of  vegetables  to  the  great  convent — he  sought 
Susurro  in  the  garden,  and  found  him  there,  slumber 
ing.  Fray  Antonio  awakened  him  gently,  and  although 
a  mild  resentment  shone  in  his  yellow  eyes  because  his 
slumbers  were  cut  short,  he  seated  himself  gravely  upon 
his  haunches,  around  which  his  tail  was  trimly  drawn, 
yawned  slowly,  and  then  seriously  looked  up  at  Fray 
Antonio  as  though  awaiting  the  communication  to  hear 
which  he  had  been  aroused  from  sleep.  Fray  Antonio, 
leaning  a  little  forward  as  he  sat  upon  a  bench  in  a 
shady  corner  of  the  garden,  looked  not  less  seriously 
upon  Susurro's  face  and  thus  addressed  him  : 

"It  hath  come  to  my  knowledge,  Timoteo,  whom 
we  call  also  Susurro,  because  of  thy  mighty  purr,  that 
the  devil  hath  put  into  thy  heart  evil  thoughts  concern 
ing  these  friends  of  ours,  the  doves.  Hearken  well, 
therefore,  to  that  which  I  shall  say  unto  thee ;  for  as 
thou  heedest  it  or  slightest  it  so  will  thy  name  among 
eats  be  honored  or  condemned.  Thy  instinct,  truly,  is 
to  catch  doves  and  to  eat  them.  With  this  instinct  I 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  19 

will  not  quarrel,  for  God  hath  given  it  to  thee.  But 
God's  gifts,  O  Susurro,  may  be  abused ;  and  a  sore 
abuse  of  this  dove-eating  instinct  of  thine  would  it  be 
shouldst  thou  kill  and  eat  these  birds  which  have  no 
fear  of  thee  and  which  dwell  with  thee  here  in  thine 
own  home.  Rather  shouldst  thou  strive  to  divert  into 
worthy  ways  the  less  worthy  of  thy  natural  tendencies, 
that  so,  by  exalting  to  good  purposes  thy  baser  passions, 
thou  mayst  achieve  righteousness.  Thus  did  the  Holy 
Cat  of  Zempoala,  whose  memory  still  is  reverenced 
although  the  brief  term  of  his  earthly  life  ended  more 
than  a  century  ago.  Hearken  well,  Susurro,  while  I 
read  to  thee  what  my  friend  the  chronicler,  Father 
Yetancurt,  hath  written  concerning  the  part  which  this 
cat  was  permitted  to  take  in  manifesting  God's  will 
that  a  great  and  worthy  work  should  be  done.'' 

So  speaking,  Fray  Antonio  drew  from  the  bosom  of 
his  habit  a  roll  of  manuscript  that  he  opened  out  and 
smoothed  upon  his  knee ;  while  Susurro  sunk  from  his 
erect  posture  to  one  of  greater  ease,  tucked  away  his 
paws  beneath  his  breast,  and  at  his  spiritual  instructor 
solemnly  blinked  his  golden  eyes.  Fray  Antonio,  with 
a  grave  emphasis,  read  to  him  these  words : 

It  was  about  the  year  1540  that  the  Reverend 
Father  Friar  Francisco  de  Tembleque  felt  stirring  in 
his  heart  a  good  desire  (that,  assuredly,  God  put  there) 
to  build  an  aqueduct  by  which  the  towns  of  Otumba 
and  Zempoala  should  be  supplied  abundantly  with  water 
wholesome  to  drink — which  at  that  time  the  people  of 
these  towns  were  compelled  to  bring  from  springs  seven 
leagues  away.  And  his  plan  was  to  make  an  aqueduct 
over  all  that  distance,  carrying  it  across  three  wide  val 
leys  on  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  thirty-six  arches, 


20  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  making  over  the  deepest  of  the  valleys  one  arch  so 
great  that  beneath  it  might  pass  (had  there  been  any 
such  thereabouts)  a  ship  under  full  sail.  And  to  this 
•work  the  Servant  of  God — for  so  Father  Tembleque 
well  was  called — set  himself  with  a  stout  heart;  and  the 
Indians  worked  for  him  joyfully.  And  at  the  spot 
where  the  great  arch  was  to  be,  in  what  then  was  a 
tangle  of  wooded  wild  land,  he  built  a  little  chapel  to 
the  glory  of  Our  Lady  of  Bclen ;  and  close  beside  the 
chapel  he  made  for  himself  a  cell  so  narrow  that 
scarcely  was  there  room  within  it  for  him  to  lie  down 
to  sleep. 

And  God  showed  his  love  for  his  Servant  by  giving 
to  dwell  with  him  a  gray  cat,  which  every  day  from 
the  wild  woodland  round  about  brought  quails  for  his 
master's  sustenance  ;  and  in  the  season  of  rabbits,  a  rab 
bit.  And  between  the  Servant  of  God  and  this  cat 
there  was  much  love. 

To  Father  Tembleque  there  came  one  day  a  stranger, 
who  courteously,  yet  with  a  curious  particularity,  ques 
tioned  him  about  the  progress  of  the  great  \vork  that  he 
had  in  hand.  For  certain  persons  of  the  baser  sort  had 
said  in  the  ear  of  the  Viceroy  that  Father  Tembleque 
was  wasting  his  time  and  the  substance  of  the  Church 
in  striving  to  do  an  impossible  thing  ;  and  this  stranger 
really  was  an  alcalde  of  the  court,  whom,  that  he  might 
know  the  truth,  the  Viceroy  had  sent  thus  secretly  to 
ask  searching  questions  and  to  see  for  himself  how  the 
work  went  on.  And  as  the  two  communed  together, 
behold  the  cat  came  out  from  the  wood  to  where  they 
stood  in  talk  and  laid  a  rabbit  at  his  master's  feet ! 

When  said  the  Servant  of  God  :  "  Brother  Cat,  a 
guest  hath  come  to  us,  and  therefore  is  it  necessary  that 
thou  shalt  bring  me  this  day  not  one  rabbit,  but  two." 

Hearing  these  words,  the  cat,  in  due  obedience,  be 
took  himself  once  more  to  the  thicket.  But  the  alcalde, 
thinking  that  this  might  be  a  trick  that  was  put  upon 
him,  sent  after  the  cat  to  spy  upon  him  one  of  his  own 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.       21 

servants.  And  the  servant  presently  beheld  a  greater 
wonder.  For  in  a  moment  the  cat  met  with  another 
rabbit,  which  he  caught  without  any  resistance  at  all  on 
the  creature's  part,  and  with  it  returned  to  his  master 
again  :  thus  plainly  showing  that  all  had  been  disposed 
thus  by  God. 

And  the  Sefior  Alcalde,  being  so  substantially  as 
sured  of  the  miracle,  returned  to  the  Viceroy  and  said  : 
"  Though  it  seems  to  be  impossible  to  bring  the  water 
by  the  way  that  Father  Tembleque  hath  chosen,  and 
though  the  work  that  he  hath  set  himself  to  do  seems 
to  be  beyond  the  power  of  man  to  accomplish,  yet 
assuredly  will  he  succeed ;  for  I  have  seen  that  which 
proves  beyond  a  peradventure  that  God  hath  vouchsafed 
to  him  his  all-powerful  aid  "  :  and  he  told  to  the  Viceroy 
the  whole  of  the  miracle  which  through  the  cat  had  been 
wrought.  Therefore  did  the  Viceroy  encourage  Father 
Tembleque  in  his  great  work  ;  and,  God's  blessing  con 
tinuing  upon  it,  in  seventeen  years'  time  the  aqueduct 
was  finished— the  very  aqueduct  through  which  the 
water  comes  to  the  towns  of  Otumba  and  Zempoala  at 
this  present  day  !  * 

"And  dost  tliou  believe,  Susurro,"  asked  Fray 
Antonio,  with  a  brisk  vehemence,  "  that  this  Holy  Cat 
of  Zempoala  would  have  played  the  dastard  part  toward 
these  doves,  our  home-mates,  that  possibly  thou  contern- 
platest  ?  Is  ever !  Assuredly,  never  !  Therefore  lay  to 
thy  heart  the  story  of  his  worthy  life,  and  call  upon  our 

*  To  the  still  greater  glory  of  the  Holy  Cat  of  Zempoala,  whoso 
honorable  history  the  chronicler  Fray  Agustin  do,  Vetancurt  has  set 
forth  as  above  in  the  Menologio  Franciscano,  October  1st,  of  his 
Teatro  Mexicano  (City  of  Mexico,  1698 ;  folio),  the  fact  may  be 
added  that  the  aqueduct  of  Zempoala  still  fulfills,  in  part  at  least, 
the  useful  purpose  for  which  Father  Tembleque  built  it  more  than 
three  centuries  ago. 


22  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

father  St.  Francis — who  loved  all  animals  and  trusted 
them — to  aid  th'ee  in  setting  so  strict  a  guard  upon  thy 
sharp  teeth,  and  upon  the  sharp  claws  wherewith  thy 
paws  are  armed,  that  through  the  fleshly  temptation 
that  is  in  these  members  of  thine  thou  fallest  not  into 


sin  I 


t  -5 


As  he  spoke  these  words,  Fray  Antonio  arose  from 
his  seat  and  signified  by  a  gesture  of  his  hand  that  the 
sermon  was  at  an  end.  Whereupon  Susurro  also  arose, 
but  slowly  and  languidly.  In  front  of  him  he  extended 
his  paws  as  far  as  ever  they  would  go,  and  erecting  his 
hinder  parts  and  bending  his  fore-shoulders  downward 
he  spread  out  all  his  claws  and  dragged  backward  upon 
them  so  that  they  made  little  furrows  in  the  earth. 
Then  he  drew  together  his  front  and  his  hind  feet,  and 
so  humped  his  back  in  a  great  bow.  After  all  of  which 
he  seated  himself  upon  his  haunches,  looked  straight 
into  Fray  Antonio's  kindly  face,  blinked  at  the  good 
brother  his  golden  eyes,  and  gave  a  most  prodigious 
yawn.  That  these  were  the  outward  signs  of  a  spirit 
meet  for  repentance  Fray  Antonio  seriously  doubted ; 
yet  did  he  stoop  down  and  stroke  gently  the  jowls  of 
the  disciple  whom  he  had  sought  to  lead  into  the  way 
of  righteousness ;  and  to  this  friendly  act  Susurro  re 
sponded  by  breaking  at  once  into  the  great  purring 
whence  came  his  name. 

Fray  Inocencio,  coming  quietly  through  the  church, 
and  standing  just  within  the  door  of  the  sacristy  that 
opened  upon  the  garden,  had  been  an  unobserved  addi 
tion  to  Fray  Antonio's  congregation :  that  otherwise 
had  been  composed  of  Susurro,  to  whom  the  sermon 
directly  was  addressed,  and  the  doves,  in  whose  interest 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  23 

it  was  preached.  Now,  coming  forward  from  the 
shadow  of  the  doorway  into  the  sunlight,  he  spoke  with 
grave  approval  of  the  edifying  nature  of  the  discourse 
to  which  he  had  been  privileged  to  listen,  and  com 
mended  his  brother  for  thus  emulating  the  goodness  of 
their  father  St.  Francis,  who  had  preached  to  the  birds, 
and  of  his  own  blessed  namesake,  St.  Anthony  of  Padua, 
who  had  preached  to  the  fishes— neither  of  whom,  Fray 
Inocencio  declared  seriously,  saints  though  they  were, 
could  have  addressed  to  Susurro  a  more  moving  or  a 
more  excellent  discourse.  Fray  Inocencio  attributed 
the  obvious  confusion  into  which  Fray  Antonio  was 
thrown  by  this  commendation,  notably  marked  by  a  flush 
of  unwonted  color  in  his  pale  cheeks,  to  a  sudden  flying 
to  arms  of  his  modesty  upon  being  surprised  in  the  com 
mission  of  a  good  deed. 

Fray  Antonio  found  himself  beset  by  reason  of  his 
brother's  praises  by  a  curious  case  of  conscience,  most 
difficult  to  deal  with.  In  preaching  his  sermon  to 
Susurro  he  had  but  given  play  to  a  certain  delicate  and 
quaint  fancy  that  was  natural  to  him ;  possibly — for  so 
may  a  man  of  fine  temperament  be  affected  by  his  sur 
roundings  and  by  the  tendencies  of  the  times  in  which 
he  lives — there  was  an  underlying  vein  of  seriousness  in 
his  discourse  :  certainly  there  was  no  thought  in  it  of 
irreverence.  But  he  knew  that  it  was  far  from  being 
the  grave  utterance  that  Fray  Inocencio  considered  it  to 
be,  and  for  which  Fray  Inocencio  gave  him  a  serious 
credit  that  was  far  from  beinor  his  due :  and  he  knew 

O  f 

also  that  to  try  to  explain  the  subtle  qualities  which 
composed  his  mood  when — as  he  now  perceived — the 
devil  had  instigated  him  to  address  Susurro  would  be 


24:  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

only  to  confuse  with  unavailing  doubts  the  simple  faith 
that  was  in  his  brother's  soul.  Therefore,  as  the  smaller 
of  two  evils,  he  accepted  silently  the  undeserved  com 
mendation  that  was  bestowed  upon  him.  That  night — • 
although  Fray  Inocencio  heard  it  not,  for  his  slumber 
was  of  the  substantial  sort  that  is  the  portion  of  little 
fat  men  whose  consciences  are  at  rest — there  was  a 
sound  of  scourging  in  Fray  Antonio's  cell. 

So  far  as  this  was  possible  in  one  whose  heart  was 
full  of  love  and  charity,  Fray  Inocencio  at  times  envied 
Fray  Antonio  because  he  was  superior  to  the  many  temp 
tations  which  made  his  own  life  burdensome  ;  but  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  temptations  of  the  spirit  which  be 
set  his  finer-natured  companion,  and  which  sometimes, 
as  in  this  case  of  yielding  to  a  too  whimsical  humor — 
that  yet  was  as  much  a  part  of  his  natural  being  as  of 
Fray  Inocencio's  natural  being  were  his  stoutness  and 
his  ruddy  cheeks — begot  evil  results  which  caused  him 
heart-bitterness  and  much  distress  of  soul. 

Doubtless,  being  more  sublimate,  the  pains  of  con 
science  which  attend  upon  waywardness  of  the  spirit 
are  more  searching  than  those  which  attend  upon  way 
wardness  of  the  flesh ;  yet  because  of  their  gross  and 
tangible  nature  the  fleshly  sins  are  more  instantly  ap 
palling.  Thus  Fray  Inocencio  probably  would  have 
reasoned,  had  he  possessed  a  mind  disposed  toward 
such  abstract  considerations,  together  with  a  knowledge 
of  the  spiritual  suffering  which  Fray  Antonio  at  times 
endured ;  but  as  neither  of  these  possessions  was  his,  he 
simply  bemoaned  very  heartily  his  own  frequent  lapses 
from  grace.  And  greatly  did  he  lament  one  especially 
great  sin,  the  doing  of  which  came  about  in  this  wise  : 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  25 

One  day,  while  Fray  Inocencio  was  gathering  let 
tuces,  and  while  Fray  Antonio  was  tending  lovingly  his 
flowers,  there  came  over  the  top  of  the  garden  wall  the 
sound  of  angry  words,  and  then  of  heavy  blows,  and 
then  of  a  cry  that  was  something  like  the  bray  of  an 
ass,  and — being  a  very  great  cry  and  terrible — some 
thing  like  the  shriek  of  a  giant  in  pain.  With  the 
promptness  that  was  customary  with  him  Fray  Inocen 
cio  unbarred  the  door  and  ran  out  upon  the  causeway  to 
sec  what  was  the  meaning  of  this  commotion ;  arid  as 
beside  the  door  stood  a  stout  staff,  that  he  carried  with 
him  for  support  when  he  walked  to  the  great  convent 
with  a  back-load  of  vegetables,  he  seized  it  that  he 
might  not  affront  the  danger,  if  danger  there  were,  un 
armed.  More  deliberately  came  out  also  through  the 
doorway  Fray  Antonio.  And  very  pitiable  was  the 
sight  that  met  their  eyes. 

Upon  the  ground  lay  a  poor  ass,  laden  with  great 
earthen  pots,  and  the  two  Indians  with  him  were  beat 
ing  him  with  their  sticks  to  make  him  rise,  the  while 
shouting  at  him  all  manner  of  coarse  abuse.  The  ass 
with  so  agonized  a  look  that  a  heart  of  stone  would 
have  been  melted  by  it  with  pity,  was  crying  aloud  in 
pain  ;  for  one  of  his  legs — as  the  brothers  saw,  though 
the  Indians  seemed  to  perceive  it  not — had  broken  un 
der  him  as  he  fell  beneath  his  too-heavy  load.  He  was 
but  a  small  ass,  and  his  lading  of  pots  would  have  been 
overheavy  for  a  strong  mule. 

Then  was  the  wrath  of  Fray  Inocencio  so  kindled 
within  him  that  every  fiber  of  his  little  round  person 
tingled  with  rage.  Forgetting  all  the  teachings  of 
gentleness  of  the  blessed  saints,  and  the  example  of  long- 


26  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

suffering  set  him  by  the  good  father  St.  Francis,  and 
his  own  vow  to  a  life  of  peace  and  holiness — forgetting 
all  this,  Fray  Inocencio  in  an  instant  had  gathered  up  and 
tucked  into  his  girdle  the  skirts  of  his  blue  gown,  that 
he  might  have  the  free  use  of  his  short  stout  legs,  and 
most  carnally  had  fallen  afoul  of  the  backs  and  shoul 
ders  of  those  cruel  Indians  with  his  staff. 

As  for  the  Indians,  this  visible  outbreak  of  the 
wrath  of  God  took  them  so  sharply  by  surprise,  while 
such  pain  penetrated  their  brown  hides  with  the  blows 
which  Fray  Inocencio  rained  down  upon  them,  that  with 
out  pausing  for  thought  or  consideration  they  inconti 
nently  took  to  their  heels.  In  an  instant  they  had 
plunged  through  the  slimy  water  of  the  acequia  beside 
the  causeway,  and  were  fleeing  away  across  the  meadow- 
land  beyond  as  though  their  assailant  had  been  not  a 
little  stout  friar,  but  the  devil  himself. 

Then  Fray  Inocencio,  puffing  greatly — for  at  the  best 
of  times  he  was  but  a  short-winded  man — knelt  down 
beside  the  ass  with  Fray  Antonio  and  aided  him  to  loose 
the  cords  which  bound  the  pots  upon  its  back,  and  so 
set  it  free  of  its  grievous  load.  Together,  very  tender 
ly,  they  lifted  the  maimed  creature  and  carried  it  into 
the  convent  garden,  and  while  Fray  Inocencio  gave  it 
water  to  drink — and  this  before  he  had  quenched  his 
own  thirst — Fray  Antonio,  who  had  a  good  knowledge 
of  the  surgeon's  craft,  set  himself  to  binding  up  the 
broken  leg  in  a  splint.  And  the  poor  ass,  seeming  to 
understand  that  it  was  being  dealt  with  by  friends  who 
meant  well  by  it,  suffered  them  to  do  with  it  what  they 
would. 

It  was  not  until  their  labors  were  ended — the  broken 


SAN  ANTONIO  OP  THE  GARDENS.  27 

leg  well  set,  and  the  ass  straitly  fastened  in  a  little  stall 
that  they  made  for  him  that  he  might  not  stir  the  leg 
in  its  setting — that  Fray  Inocencio  had  time  to  think  of 
the  sin  which  he  had  fallen  into  in  giving  his  righteous 
anger  such  unrighteous  vent.  He  was  the  more  dis 
tressed  in  spirit  because,  for  the  very  life  of  him,  he 
could  not  create  in  his  heart  a  sincere  repentance  of 
having  given  to  those  Indians  so  sound  a  beating. 
Strive  however  much  he  might  to  crush  it,  the  thought 
would  assert  itself  that  they  richly  deserved  not  only 
every  blow  that  they  received,  but  also  the  great  many 
more  blows  which  they  escaped  by  running  away.  And 
with  this  thought  most  persistently  came  a  carnal  long 
ing  to  get  at  them  again  and  finish  the  work  that  he 
had  so  vigorously  begun.  To  Fray  Inocencio's  dying 
day  this  sin  remained  with  him ;  and  while  the  prick 
ings  of  it  were  hard  to  bear,  he  had  of  it,  at  least,  the 
compensating  advantage  that  it  always  was  with  him 
as  a  wholesome  reminder  to  keep  his  too-ready  anger 
within  due  bonds. 

Fortunately — for  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  could  not 
have  resisted  it — the  temptation  to  finish  the  beating 
was  not  put  in  his  way.  That  the  Indians  returned  and 
carried  off  their  earthen  pots  was  inferred  by  the  broth 
ers  when,  having  ended  their  surgical  and  other  minis 
trations  to  the  ass's  comfort,  they  looked  out  upon  the 
causeway  and  found  that  the  pots  were  gone.  And 
they  believed  that  from  the  Indians  came  the  rather 
mysterious  old  man  who  presented  himself  the  next  day 
at  the  convent  with  a  confused  request  for  medicine  for 
a  sick  child ;  and  who  contrived,  while  the  apothecary- 
work  was  in  progress,  to  get  into  the  garden  where  the 


28  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

hurt  ass  was  and  to  make  an  examination  of  its  state. 
But  from  tins  old  man  they  could  learn  nothing  of  the 
owners  of  the  ass ;  nor  were  their  many  inquiries  among 
the  Indians  round  about  better  rewarded.  That  the 
owners  thus  modestly  veiled  their  identity,  and  that 
they  made  no  effort  to  reclaim  their  property,  on  the 
whole  was  not  surprising.  No  doubt  they  held,  and 
wisely,  that  a  broken-legged  ass  was  not  worth  adven 
turing  for  within  the  dangerous  range  of  the  little 
friar's  staff. 

Chiefly,  as  Fray  Inocencio  very  firmly  believed,  be 
cause  of  the  many  prayers  to  this  end  that  he  addressed 
to  the  miracle-working  image  of  San  Antonio  that  was 
in  the  little  church,  the  ass  in  due  season  got  wrell.  But 
as,  through  some  mischance,  the  broken  bone  had  gone 
awry  in  the  splint,  it  healed  crookedly ;  so  that  that  leg 
was  shorter  than  the  other  legs.  From  this  fresh  mis 
fortune  the  ass  suffered  no  pain,  but  thenceforward  he 
was  very  lame. 

Being  thus  healed,  and,  after  a  fashion,  a  servicea 
ble  ass  once  more,  the  question  what  they  should  do 
with  him  perplexed  the  brothers  sadly.  Of  other  valu 
able  property,  being  strictly  vowed  to  poverty,  they 
had  none.  The  cat  Timoteo,  called  Susurro,  and  the 
doves,  were  wild  things  of  nature ;  of  no  use  to  man 
save  in  so  far  as  they  were  a  source  of  happiness  through 
the  love  in  them  and  for  them  that  God  inspired.  But 
the  case  of  the  ass,  an  animal  both  useful  and  valuable, 
was  different.  Fray  Inocencio,  into  whose  heart  the 
devil  put  the  thought  that  the  ass  very  well  might  bear 
to  the  great  convent  the  loads  which  he  himself  was 
wont  to  carry  thither  on  his  back,  reasoned  that,  inas- 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.  29 

much  as  the  ass  in  truth  was  not  their  own,  but  only  in 
their  ward  until  his  rightful  owners  should  be  found, 
they  might  use  him  in  all  conscionable  work  without 
falling  into  sin.  But  Fray  Antonio,  seeing  more  clearly, 
pointed  out  that  they  had  striven  earnestly  but  vainly 
to  find  the  ass's  owner,  and  that  now  there  was  small 
chance  that  the  owner  ever  would  be  found  at  all ;  and 
he  showed,  further,  that  no  matter  in  whom  might  vest 
his  actual  ownership,  to  them  would  belong,  should 
they  elect  to  avail  themselves  of  it,  his  usufruct ;  which 
possession  was  a  thing  of  value  inconsistent  with  the 
poverty  to  which  they  were  vowed.  Yet,  since  the  ass 
was  not  truly  their  own,  he  admitted,  they  had  no  right  to 
sell  him  and  to  give  the  money  to  the  poor — supposing 
the  somewhat  improbable  case  of  any  one  being  found 
willing  to  buy  an  ass  that  in  addition  to  great  natural 
laziness  was  hopelessly  lame  ;  nor  were  they  free  to  give 
him  away.  Giving  him  in  trust,  to  be  surrendered 
should  his  owner  ever  be  found,  was  the  only  solution 
of  the  matter  they  could  arrive  at ;  and  this  failed  be 
cause  they  could  find  no  one  who  would  accept  the  ass 
on  these,  or,  indeed,  on  any  other  terms.  Yet  to  sup 
port  the  ass  in  absolute  idleness,  as  Fray  Antonio  was 
forced  to  own,  would  be  to  violate  the  law  of  his  being 
under  which  a  beneficent  Creator  had  placed  him  in 
the  world  for  the  good  of  man. 

Altogether  this  case  of  conscience  was  so  nice  a  one, 
and  so  beset  by  difficulties,  that  after  the  brothers  had 
debated  it  for  a  long  while  together  fruitlessly,  and  had 
prayed  for  guidance  without  receiving  light  upon  their 
path  in  answer  to  their  prayer,  they  determined  to  rele 
gate  its  decision,  through  Fray  Agustin  de  Vetancurt 


30  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

— to  whom,  their  little  church  being  adjunct  to  the  par 
ish  church  of  San  Jose"  in  San  Francisco,  they  were 
directly  responsible — to  the  Yery  Reverend  Father 
Friar  Juan  Gutierrez,  who  then  governed  the  province 
of  the  Santo  Evangelio,  to  which  their  convent  per 
tained,  and  who  was  the  Senior  Provincial  of  the  Fran 
ciscan  Order  in  New  Spain. 

This  high  resolve  they  executed.  Driving  before 
them  the  cause  of  their  spiritual  tribulation,  and  accom 
modating  their  steps  to  the  halting  slowness  of  his  gait, 
and  even  stopping  when  he  turned  aside  to  crop  in  a 
meditative  fashion  at  some  especially  tempting  bunch 
of  grass,  they  went  together  along  the  causeway,  past 
the  church  of  San  Cosine,  the  convent  of  San  Diego, 
the  burning-place  of  the  Inquisition,  and  the  Alameda, 
and  so  through  the  outskirts  of  the  city  to  the  great 
convent.  They  entered  by  the  gate  from  the  Zuleta, 
and  fastened  the  ass  in  the  court-yard  beneath  the  win 
dows  of  the  building  set  apart  for  the  use  of  the  com 
missioners-general  of  the  Order — the  same  building  that 
now  profanely  has  been  changed  into  a  hotel. 

There  was  not  a  little  merriment  among  the  broth 
ers  when  the  purpose  for  which  Fray  Antonio  and 
Fray  Inocencio  had  come  thither  with  the  ass  was 
known ;  for  already  the  brothers  within  this  convent, 
being  grown  rich  and  lustful  of  earthly  pleasures,  had 
so  fallen  from  grace  that  conscientious  scruples  in  re 
gard  to  the  ownership  of  a  lame,  wretched  ass  seemed 
to  them  laughable.  But  the  Father  Yetancurt,  who 
was  a  holy  man,  and  who  had  chosen  Fray  Antonio  and 
Fray  Inocencio  for  the  missionary  work  that  they  had 
in  charge  because  in  the  midst  of  much  that  was  evil 


SAN  ANTONIO  OF  THE  GARDENS.       31 

and  corrupt  they  liad  remained  pure,  treated  with  a  dtte 
seriousness  the  case  of  conscience  that  they  had  come 
to  have  resolved.  That  he  smiled  a  little  as  he  exhib 
ited  the  matter  to  the  Father  Provincial  is  true ;  and 
this  great  dignitary  smiled  also  on  hearing  what  a 
quaint  cause  of  perplexity  beset  the  souls  of  the  two 
brothers  and  had  been  brought  by  them,  in  their  rare 
simplicity,  to  him  for  resolution  and  adjustment.  But 
the  smiles  of  these  two  good  men  had  in  them  nothing 
of  derision,  and,  in  truth,  were  not  far  removed  from 
tears. 

"  It  is  the  spirit  of  our  father  St.  Francis  alive 
again,"  said  the  Provincial,  reverently ;  and  in  all  hu 
mility  they  thanked  God  that  innocency  so  excellent 
should  be  found  remaining  pure  amid  so  much  of 
earthly  corruption  and  spiritual  guile. 

Then  came  the  brothers  before  the  Father  Provin 
cial,  and  by  his  grace  told  him  the  whole  of  the  matter 
that  filled  with  anxious  doubts  their  souls.  Fray  Anto 
nio,  who  feared  nothing  but  evil  and  the  doing  thereof, 
said  what  he  had  to  say  reverently,  as  became  him  in 
such  a  case,  yet  plainly  and  at  his  ease  :  telling  how  the 
ass  came  into  their  possession,  yet  touching  but  lightly 
upon  the  fiery  part  that  Fray  Inocencio  had  played  ; 
how  they  had  sousrht  earnestly  but  had  failed  to  find 

•/  o  */ 

his  lawful  owner,  and  therefore  had  no  right  either  to 
sell  him  or  to  give  him  away ;  how  no  one  could  be 
found  willing  to  accept  him  as  a  trust ;  and  how,  being 
thus  forced  to  keep  him  themselves,  they  feared  that 
the  use  of  him  was  a  valuable  possession  that  their  vow 
of  poverty  forbade.  Fray  Inocencio,  who  was  terribly 
frightened  at  speaking  to  so  great  a  personage,  grew 


32  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

pale  and  stumbled  in  liis  speech ;  but  by  God's  help  ho 
told  truly  how  he  had  beaten  those  cruel  Indians ;  how 
his  repentance  of  this  act  was  not  complete,  since  he 
could  not  banish  from  his  heart  the  wish  to  finish  the 
punishment  that  he  had  begun ;  and  how  the  devil  had 
put  into  his  heart  the  desire  to  keep  the  ass,  that  in 
bringing  vegetables  to  the  great  convent  his  own  back 
might  be  spared.  Having  thus  said  to  the  end  what  he 
felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  say,  he  drew  a  long  breath, 
wiped  with  the  sleeve  of  his  gown  the  beads  of  sweat 
from  his  forehead,  and  was  still.  That  the  case  might 
be  complete,  the  Father  Provincial  looked  from  the 
window  and  saw  the  ass  tethered  in  the  court  below, 
and  the  brothers  pointed  to  his  crooked  leg  and  told 
how  in  its  healing  the  bone  had  gone  awry ;  and  the 
ass,  hearing  the  voices  of  his  friends,  looked  up  toward 
them  with  affection  and  brayed  a  mighty  bray. 

With  a  full  heart  answered  to  them  the  Father  Pro 
vincial  :  "  It  is  God  himself,  my  brothers,  who  hath 
given  this  ass  to  you  in  reward  for  your  tenderness  and 
goodness  of  heart,  and  to  accept  a  gift  from  him  surely 
is  no  infraction  of  your  vow.  Go  in  peace  to  your  con 
vent  again,  and  keep  for  your  service  this  poor  beast 
that  you  have  saved  from  a  life  of  misery,  and  in  whose 
brute  heart  I  perceive  that  there  is  for  you  such  well- 
deserved  love.  Take  you  also  my  blessing — though,  in 
truth,  rather  should  I  ask  your  blessing  than  thus  give 
you  mine." 

And  the  brothers,  very  grateful  for  the  dispensation 
in  their  favor,  but  not  at  all  understanding  the  full 
meaning  of  the  Father  Provincial's  words,  made  proper 
reverence  to  him  and  went  their  way  homeward ;  being 


SAN  ANTONIO   OF  THE  GARDENS.  33 

full  of  happiness  because  of  the  glad  consciousness,  un 
troubled  by  doubt  or  misgiving,  that  the  ass  now  really 
was  their  very  own. 

Thereafter  so  often  as  it  was  necessary  that  vege 
tables  should  be  brought  from  the  little  convent  to  the 
great  one  the  bearer  of  the  load  was  the  lame  ass,  and 
behind  him  or  beside  him  Fray  Inocencio  walked.  As 
they  slowly  journeyed,  these  two  held  pleasant  converse 
together ;  for  Fray  Inocencio  maintained  that  the  ass 
understood  the  meaning  of  human  speech  as  well  as  he 
himself  understood  the  meaning  of  the  glances  which 
the  ass  gave  him,  and  the  various  twitchings  of  his 
scraggy  tail,  and  the  shakings  of  his  head,  and,  above 
all,  the  whole  vocabulary  that  was  in  the  waggings  of 
his  ample  ears. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  cheery  sight  to  see  these  friends 
upon  the  road  together.  At  his  best  the  ass  hobbled 
along  at  a  pace  that  a  tortoise  would  have  scorned  for 
its  slowness ;  and  at  times  ho  would  stop  wholly  and 
would  gaze  around  him  with  a  look  of  thoughtful  in 
quiry  ;  or  he  would  step  aside  to  crop  a  bit  of  grass 
that  pleased  his  fancy ;  and  ever  and  anon  he  would 
edge  up  to  his  friend  and  rub  his  long  nose  gently 
against  the  friar's  side,  and  then  would  look  into  his  face 
with  a  glance  so  movingly  tender  that  nothing  more 
could  have  been  added  to  it  for  the  expression  of  his 
love.  For  his  part,  Fray  Inocencio  patiently  accommo 
dated  the  naturally  brisk  movements  of  his  own  stout 
little  legs  to  the  ass's  infinite  slowness :  when  the  ass 
would  stop,  he  would  stop  also ;  when  by  any  chance 
the  ass  missed  sight  of  a  choice  bunch  of  grass,  he  would 
lead  him  to  it  and  would  wait  by  him  until  he  had 
3 


34  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

cropped  it  to  the  very  last  blade ;  and  when  the  ass  by 
his  nose-rubbings  would  manifest  his  love,  he  would 
gather  the  ass's  long,  shaggy  head  in  his  arms  against 
his  breast  and  would  lavish  upon  him  all  manner  of 
terms  of  endearment  as  he  stroked  gently  his  fuzzy 
ears. 

So  the  fame  of  these  two  went  through  all  the  city ; 
and  upon  the  ass,  who  truly  was  as  lazy  as  he  was  lame, 
the  common  people  bestowed  the  name  of  Flojo,  which 
word,  in  the  Spanish  tongue,  signifies  "  the  lazy  one." 
In  this  wise  came  the  proverb  that  is  spoken  of  any  one 
who  greatly  loves  a  useless  beast  or  person :  he  loves 
him  as  Fray  Inocencio  loved  Flojo,  the  lame  ass. 

Over  the  brothers,  dwelling  peacefully  in  their  little 
convent,  and  serving  God  by  loving  his  creatures  and 
by  ministering  faithfully  to  the  welfare  of  the  souls  of 
their  fellow-men,  the  years  drifted  happily.  Unharmed 
by  Timoteo,  called  Susurro,  who  waxed  fat  and  sluggish 
as  age  stole  upon  him,  yet  lost  nothing  of  the  sweetness 
of  his  nature  nor  of  the  thunderousness  of  his  purr,  the 
doves  increased  and  multiplied  ;  the  little  garden  yield 
ed  ever  freshly  its  substance  of  fresh  food  and  sweet- 
smelling  flowers ;  the  ass,  Flojo,  tenderly  cherished  by 
his  masters,  developed  yet  greater  prodigies  of  laziness 
as  his  years  advanced ;  and  the  brothers  themselves, 
happy  in  leading  a  life  in  all  \vays  innocent  and  very 
excellent  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  knew  not  what  it  was 
to  grow  old,  because  their  hearts  ever  remained  young. 

And  in  the  fullness  of  their  years,  their  good  lives 
ended,  Fray  Antonio  and  Fray  Inocencio  passed  out 
gently  from  time  into  eternity,  and  were  gathered  home 
to  God. 


NIOTTA. 

ALL  her  life  long,  that  is  to  say  for  very  nearly  sev 
enteen  years,  Nifiita  had  lived  in  the  little  town  of 
Santa  Cmz.  Not  the  old  Santa  Cruz,  but  the  new  one 
— the  Villa  Nueva  de  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Caiiada,  as  they 
called  it,  those  lank  Spaniards  who  built  it,  in  compli 
ance  with  the  orders  of  the  pious  King  Philip,  up  on 
the  head-waters  of  the  Kio  Grande  del  Norte,  a  trifle 
less  than  three  hundred  years  ago.  And  the  town  to 
day  is  very  much  what  it  was  when  its  founders,  hav 
ing,  as  they  believed,  sufficiently  fulfilled  the  king's 
command,  ceased  building.  Twenty  or  thirty  adobe 
houses,  low  and  mellow-brown  as  the  sun  strikes  down 
upon  them,  cluster  around  three  sides  of  the  plaza. 
On  the  fourth  side  stands  the  old  adobe  church  of 
Nuestra  Senora  del  Carmen,  grown  to  stately  propor 
tions  in  modern  times — that  is  to  say,  within  the  past 
two  centuries — but  most  reverenced  because  of  its  old 
chapel  that  was  builded  first  of  all,  when  the  good 
Franciscans  came  out  into  the  wilderness  to  save  heathen 
souls.  And  in  this  chapel  is  the  gracious  image  of  Our 
Lady  that  the  great  Queen  Isabel,  long  before  the  new 
town  of  Santa  Cruz  was  thought  of,  had  caused  to  be 
made  and  sent  over  seas  for  the  edification  of  those  con- 


36  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

verted  to  the  true  faitli  in  her  new-found  island  realm. 
Ninita  greatly  loved  that  sweet  image,  and,  on  occasion, 
she  made  to  it  her  most  especial  prayers. 

But  Niilita,  while  a  good  girl  who  went  to  the  sacra 
ment  regularly,  and  who  regularly  first  cleared  her  little 
conscience  of  the  various  small  sins  which  accumulated 
upon  it  from  month  to  month,  had  not  often  been 
moved  to  address  to  Our  Lady  any  very  earnest  prayers. 
Her  life  was  still  too  young,  too  fresh,  too  joyous  in  its 
sweet  innocence  to  make  any  very  earnest  praying  on 
her  part  necessary.  Three  times,  in  all,  she  had  come 
to  Our  Lady  with  petitions  which  came  strongly  and 
warmly  from  her  heart :  once  when  little  Carlos  was 
born  and  her  mother  lay  very,  very  ill — so  ill  that  the 
padre  came  with  the  holy  oil,  and  the  nurse  opened  the 
window  in  the  thick  adobe  wall,  that  the  free  spirit 
might  find  its  way  out  easily  and  so  swiftly  get  to 
heaven ;  once  when  the  lurro  fell  down  and  crushed 
her  father  with  the  load  of  wood ;  and  once  when  a 
pestilence  of  small-pox  was  destroying  right  and  left 
over  in  the  near-by  pueblo  of  San  Juan.  This  last 
prayer  was  that  Santa  Cruz  might  be  spared — and  she 
was  quite  conscious,  down  in  the  very  depths  of  her 
heart,  that  the  real  burden  of  her  prayer  was  that  her 
own  pretty  face  might  escape  the  pestilence.  It  horri 
fied  her  to  think  that  she  might  have  to  go  through 
life  seamed  and  scarred  like  old  Dolores.  And  all  her 
prayers  had  been  granted.  By  a  miracle,  as  the  padre 
said,  her  mother  did  not  die,  but  got  well.  The  Amer 
ican  doctor  said  that  her  life  was  saved  because  the 
window  was  opened  and  some  fresh  air  got  into  the  room 
— the  first  that  had  been  there  for  years.  ]STinita,  who 


NINITA.  37 

shared  the  contempt  of  her  race  for  fresh  air,  believed 
the  padre.  Her  father,  who  was  a  wiry  little  man,  got 
well,  too,  though  the  poor  burro  died,  having  broken 
his  back.  And,  as  a  dead  burro  is  a  thing  almost  un 
known,  the  people  came  from  miles  around  to  look  at  his 
little  fuzzy  corpse,  and  stroked,  almost  tenderly,  his  long 
ears,  out  of  which  the  wag  had  gone  forever.  Nor  did 
the  pestilence  of  small-pox  come  to  Santa  Cruz.  Now 
who  can  wonder,  her  prayers  having  been  so  fully  an 
swered,  that  Niflita  loved  the  gentle  face  and  figure  of 
Our  Lady,  and  knelt  before  her  reverently  ? 

There  was,  indeed,  about  Santa  Cruz  a  perfect  pla 
cidity  that  well  might  produce  a  quiet,  loving  faith 
such  as  dwelt  serenely  in  Ninita's  little  breast.  Since 
that  dreadful  day  in  January,  three-and-thirty  years 
before,  when  the  battle  was  fought,  out  on  the  mesa, 
and  the  victorious  Americanos  came  into  the  town  and 
wrecked  the  padrds  house,  and  despoiled  the  church  of 
its  treasures — a  sad  day's  work  still  silently  testified  to 
by  the  broken  walls  and  bare  sacristy— since  that  dread 
ful  day  there  had  not  been  a  single  event  of  any  sort  to 
stir  the  town  from  its  perfect  quietude.  Nifiita's  father 
had  been  in  that  fight,  and  still  bore  upon  his  right  arm 
the  brave  scar  where  the  American  saber  had  cut  in  to 
the  bone.  In  his  shoulder  he  still  carried  the  Ameri 
can  bullet  that  abruptly  ended  his  fighting.  But  all 
this  happened  long  before  Ninita's  day.  She  knew  of 
it  only  as  a  dreadful  story  that  was  told  to  her  when 
she  was  a  little  child — when  she  really  was  the  baby- 
girl  of  the  household,  "  la  ninita  " — sitting  close  by  her 
father's  side  out  on  the  stone  pavement  before  the  door 
way  in  the  cool  evenings,  while  the  wind  blew  fresh 


38  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

through  the  broad  valley  and  the  sun  went  down  be 
yond  the  mountains  in  a  golden  blaze. 

During  all  her  life  there  had  been  in  Santa  Cruz 
only  peace  and  happiness.  Her  father,  somewhat  fit 
fully,  to  be  sure,  had  tilled  his  little  plot  of  ground, 
lying  close  upon  the  margin  of  the  Rio  Grande,  with 
his  two  little  steers  and  his  little  wooden  plow;  and 
Nifiita  herself  had  helped  in  this  work,  paddling  about 
barefooted  in  the  mud  and  with  a  clumsy  hoe  turning 
the  water  from  the  acequia  from  channel  to  channel 
until  the  whole  field  was  freshened  and  gladdened  by  its 
grateful  presence.  Then,  when  her  day's  work  in  the 
fields  was  ended,  she  would  wash  her  feet  in  the  stream 
and  trot  home  to  help  in  making  supper  ready — not  a 
very  serious  performance,  for  the  supper  was  atole  and 
goat's-milk  almost  the  year  round.  After  supper  she 
would  bring  the  water  from  the  spring ;  placing  the 
great  tinaja  close  by  the  open  chimney,  where,  through 
the  chill  night,  the  water  would  grow  deliciously  cool 
in  the  draft.  As  she  grew  older  it  was  noticed  that 
among  the  village  maidens  Ninita  bore  her  water-jar 
upon  her  head  most  gracefully,  and  was  the  lightest, 
lithest,  liveliest,  and  prettiest  of  them  all.  And  she 
was  such  a  sweet,  helpful  little  body,  so  ready  with  a 
kind  word  and  a  kind  act,  that  even  her  girl  friends 
forgave  her  her  good  looks  and  loved  her.  Surely 
there  was  every  reason  why  she  should  be  happy  ;  and 
she  was  happy — as  happy  as  the  day  was  long :  and, 
somehow,  the  days  are  very  long  down  in  that  pleasant 
old  New  Spain. 

But  now,  at  last,  a  trouble  had  overtaken  Kinita, 
and  for  the  fourth  time  in  her  life  she  had  stolen  into 


NINITA.  39 

the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  to  pray.  Vespers  were  over, 
and  through  all  the  great  church  there  was  a  duskiness. 
Into  the  little  chapel  a  gleam  of  light  came  through  the 
western  window,  and  played  upon  Our  Lady's  golden 
crown — not  the  crown  of  real  gold  that  was  sent  by 
Queen  Isabel  (that  had  gone  northward  long  ago  in  the 
saddle-bag  of  an  Americano),  but  the  gilded  crown 
that  had  been  made  of  late  in  Paris,  and  that  Our  Lady 
— failing  to  get  anything  better— wore  with  a  gracious 
serenity.  The  light  played,  too,  upon  Our  Lady's  face 
— a  gentle,  loving  face,  that  Nifiita  felt  was  looking 
down  upon  her  full  of  sympathy.  And  so,  coming  as 
near  as  her  respect  for  the  holy  image  would  permit 
her,  though  not  so  near  as  her  heart  prompted,  she 
dropped  down  upon  her  knees  in  the  dusk  and  prayed. 
She  knelt  there  upon  the  clay  floor  for  a  long  while — so 
long  that  the  dusk  passed  into  gloom  and  the  gloom  into 
dark — but  still  a  faint  ray  of  light  stole  in  from  the  west, 
and  through  the  darkness  the  saintly  face  looked  kindly 
down  upon  her,  and  a  dim  glory  seemed  to  shine  from 
the  golden  crown.  At  last  she  rose.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  but  her  heart  was  lighter.  She  stole  out 
softly  from  the  chapel,  through  the  dark  church,  and 
into  the  starlight.  She  did  not  see  the  padre,  nor  did 
he  speak  to  her  as  she  passed  him  in  the  cool  darkness. 
He  \vas  a  wise  and  good  man,  and  he  knew  that  some 
times  hearts  grow  too  tender  to  be  touched  by  any  hand 
but  God's  own. 

But  this  time  Xifiita's  prayers  were  not  for  her  peo 
ple.  At  her  home,  in  the  adobe  house,  over  on  the 
other  side  of  the  plaza,  all  was  well.  As  she  came 
from  the  church  she  found  her  father  smoking  his 


40  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

cigarrito  with  unruffled  happiness — sitting  the  while, 
like  a  patriarch  of  old,  before  his  gate  in  the  evening. 
"Within  the  house  her  mother  was  going  through  the 
mysterious  process  that  Mexican  women  probably  be 
lieve  to  be  dish-washing.  On  the  clay  floor  her  little 
brother  was  contending  amicably  with  the  big  dog  for 
a  bone.  There  was  nothing  wrong  here ;  it  was  a 
household  permeated  by  contentment  and  possessed  by 
peace.  !N"o,  NiBita's  sorrow  was  not  for  her  people. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  sorrowful  for  her 
self.  Her  prayer  was  for  her  own  right  guidance — the 
prayer  that  the  saints  have  had  put  up  to  them  so  many 
times  in  the  long  ages  since  the  world  began :  that  a 
maiden's  love  may  be  led  and  guided  in  the  right  way. 

A  year  before,  Niiiita  would  have  laughed  had  any 
one  told  her  that  this  world-old  prayer  would  so  soon  be 
hers.  She  would  have  laughed,  and  would  have  shyly 
pointed  to  tall  Manuel,  who  never  was  far  from  her 
side  in  those  happy  days.  That  she  should  marry  Ma 
nuel  had  been  decided  upon  by  old  Jose  and  old  Manuel 
while  yet  the  two  were  children,  making  little  adobes 
and  building  toy  houses  together  out  under  the  big  cot 
ton-wood  tree,  by  the  acequia.  It  was  a  marriage  that 
in  every  way  would  be  desirable.  Old  Manuel  and  old 
Jose  were  the  fastest  of  friends.  They  had  fought  to 
gether,  and  had  been  wounded  together,  and  had  suf 
fered  loss  of  property  together  when  the  hated  Ameri 
canos  invaded  the  land :  and  what  binds  men  more 
strongly  together  than  brothership  in  arms  and  com 
munity  in  wrongs  ?  And  then  for  years  they  had  been 
wrangling  good-naturedly  over  the  right  to  the  water 
that  flowed  across  a  field  of  Jose's  before  it  reached 


N1NITA.  41 

Manuel's  land.  For  their  old  friendship's  sake  they 
were  eager  to  have  the  marriage  take  place ;  and  for 
the  sake  of  settling  the  one  dispute  that  ever  had  come 
to  jar  upon  their  friendship,  it  was  agreed  that  this 
field  over  which  the  water  came  should  be  Niiiita's  por 
tion.  There  was  great  satisfaction  between  the  two  old 
fellows  when  this  excellent  plan  was  thought  of  and 
decided  upon.  In  their  joy  they  drank  more  of  the 
Albuquerque  wine  than  was  good  for  them,  and  so  were 
roundly  rated  by  their  wives. 

~Nor  was  their  manifest  destiny  at  all  objected  to  by 
Ninita  and  Manuel  as  they  grew  up  out  of  childhood 
and  came  to  know  about  it.  Manuel  would  have  been 
hard  to  please  indeed  had  he  not  been  pleased  with 
Nmita,  the  roundest,  daintiest  little  body  in  all  the  val 
ley  between  Antonito  and  Santa  Fe.  And  Ninita  had 
equal  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  Manuel.  He  was  a 
gallant  young  fellow,  with  crisp  black  hair,  black  eyes 
that  were  bold  yet  tender,  a  brave  figure,  and  the  natu 
ral  grace  that  is  the  heritage  of  the  children  of  the 
South.  He  was,  too,  as  good-hearted  as  lie  was  hand 
some.  Everybody  spoke  well  of  him  ;  and,  what  is 
more  surprising,  the  praise  that  he  got  was  deserved. 
It  seemed  a  match  made  in  heaven  ;  Nifiita  thought  so, 
certainly,  sometimes,  when  her  brown  eyes  were  turned 
up  to  his,  and  each  saw  plainly  the  other's  love. 

And  yet  now  iSinita  had  prayed  from  the  depths  of 
her  soul  that  the  sweet  Lady  would  guide  aright  the 
love  that  was  in  her  heart.  And  in  thus  praying  she 
had  admitted  to  Our  Lady,  while  yet  denying  it  to  her 
self,  that  the  love  which  for  so  long  had  flowed  on 
smoothly  in  the  same  pleasant  channel  had  begun  to 


42  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

stray  from  its  right  course — that  within  her  heart  was 
going  on  a  fight  between  an  old  love  and  a  new. 

This  fight  was  something  more  than  an  ordinary 
heart-battle ;  it  was  a  veritable  war  of  races.  Manuel's 
rival — of  whose  existence,  as  yet,  Manuel  had  but  a 
faint,  uncertain  suspicion — was  not  of  his  hybrid  race, 
that  strange  mixture  of  Spanish  and  Indian  blood  that 
has  come  to  be  known  as  Mexican.  John  Grant  was 
pure  Saxon :  tall,  large-limbed,  with  merry  blue  eyes 
that  yet  had  a  world  of  tenderness  in  them,  and  with 
blonde  hair  and  beard ;  and  for  a  man  who  had  run  a 
level  for  a  thousand  miles  or  so  across  the  plains,  and 
who  had  been  making  surveys  for  a  year  or  more  under 
the  blazing  sun  of  l^ew  Mexico,  he  was  wonderfully 
fair.  To  Kinita,  when  he  first  cantered  across  the 
j)la2dj  in  the  early  morning  sunlight,  and  pulled  up 
short  at  her  father's  gate,  this  blonde  young  fellow,  in 
blue  flannel  shirt  and  corduroy  trousers  tucked  into  his 
boots,  appeared  as  a  god.  Down  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  among  the  drops  of  her  Indian  blood,  she  had,  if 
not  exactly  a  belief,  at  least  a  touch  of  superstitious 
faith,  in  the  coining  again  of  the  fair  Montezuma ;  and 
she  knew  that  when  the  god  returned  it  would  be  with 
the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  But  this  faint  remnant 
of  a  nearly  shattered  creed  had  no  real  hold  upon  her, 
and  in  a  moment  she  laughed  a  little  to  herself,  and 
then,  more  seriously,  exorcised  the  evil  spirit  that  had 
put  such  thoughts  into  her  mind  by  making  upon  her 
breast  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Yery  charming  she  looked,  to  be  sure,  standing 
there  in  the  shadow  of  the  gateway,  with  the  court 
yard  behind  her  all  lit  up  by  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 


NINITA.  43 

Grant,  looking  at  her  from  under  the  broad  brim  of  his 
felt  hat,  thought  that  she  was  the  most  beautiful  creat 
ure  he  had  ever  seen  ;  and  this  somewhat  hastily  formed 
opinion  was  not  far  from  the  truth. 

In  shaky  but  intelligible  Spanish  he  asked  for  per 
mission  to  see  her  father,  and  when  old  Jose  came  out 
from  the  court-yard  he  set  about  explaining  his  busi 
ness.  The  railroad,  coming  down  from  the  North,  was 
to  traverse  that  very  field  over  which  Jose  and  Manuel 
had  quarreled  so  pleasantly  in  the  years  gone  by — the 
field  that  was  to  be  Ninita's  marriage  portion— and 
Grant  had  come,  he  said,  to  pay  for  the  right  of  way. 
A  great  time  he  had  making  clear  to  Jose  the  meaning 
of  that  same  phrase,  "  right  of  w^ay,"  for  it  involved 
the  meaning  also  of  railroads — monstrosities  of  which 
only  a  hazy  conception  resided  in  Jose?s  mind.  But 
when,  at  last,  the  old  man  fairly  got  the  bearings  of  the 
case,  his  anger  got  the  better  of  his  Mexican  politeness. 
A  railroad  cross  his  land  ?  Xever !  lie  had  fought 
the  invaders  once,  and  he  was  not  too  old  to  fight  them 
again.  lie  would  die  before  he  would  see  the  iields 
laid  waste  which  he  had  tilled  his  life  long,  and  which 
his  father  and  grandfather  and  all  his  line  before  him 
had  tilled  for  two  centuries.  He  did  not  care  for 
money ;  God  had  given  him  all  that  was  needful  to 
make  life  happy,  and  money  was  of  no  use.  He  had 
had  enough  of  Americanos  in  the  past — his  hand 
touched  the  place  where  the  Texan  ball  still  lay  in  his 
shoulder — and  this  particular  Americano,  he  said  ab 
ruptly  in  conclusion,  was  at  liberty  to  go  at  once  to  the 
devil.  Arid,  saying  this,  old  Jose  pulled  uSTinita  within 
the  gate,  and  then  slammed  it  in  John  Grant's  face. 


44  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Grant,  who  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  such  an  out- 
burst,  but  who  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  things  coolly, 
slowly  gathered  up  the  reins  from  his  horse's  neck  and 
went  away,  whistling  meditatively.  But  he  was  think 
ing  less  of  what  Jose  had  said  than  of  what  he  had 
seen.  For  many  a  long  day  he  carried  in  his  mind  the 
picture  that  he  had  come  upon  so  suddenly  as  he  can 
tered  across  the  plaza :  Xinita  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  doorway,  with  the  court-yard  bright  in  the  morn 
ing  sunlight  beyond. 

Now,  of  course,  a  railroad  that  is  to  unite  two  nations 
can  not  be  stopped  by  a  single  cranky  old  Mexican — es 
pecially  when  the  railroad-builders  are  more  than  ready 
to  pay  their  way.  And  back  of  this  truism,  in  this 
particular  instance,  was  the  fact  that  John  Grant  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  to  drop  a  piece  of  work  when  he 
had  once  fairly  begun  it.  He  did  not  go  to  the  devil, 
as  Jose  had  impolitely  suggested ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
went  to  the  company's  solicitor,  and  explained  to  that 
functionary  the  necessity  of  using  means  more  powerful 
than  persuasion  to  bring  Jose  to  terms.  Evidently  this 
was  not  a  case  in  which  mild  measures  would  prove  use 
ful  :  and  yet,  for  some  reason  which  he  did  not  satis 
factorily  account  for  to  himself,  Grant  made  a  number 
of  visits  to  the  adobe  house  in  Santa  Cruz  before  he 
finally  invoked  the  power  of  the  law.  Upon  old  Jose 
all  his  blandishments  were  thrown  away.  The  old  fel 
low  did  not  suffer  his  anger  to  overcome  him  again  • 
but  with  Spanish  dignity  and  Mexican  stubbornness  he 
held  his  ground.  Between  him  and  the  Americanos 
there  was  a  gulf  of  hatred  that  nothing  could  bridge — 
least  of  all,  a  railroad  that  was  to  destroy  his  lands. 


NlSfrTA.  45 

Tins  was  liis  position,  and  lie  held  it  as  resolutely  as  lie 
had  held  the  redoubt  out  on  the  mesa  tliree-and-tliirty 
years  before. 

It  was  during  these  days,  while  Grant  came  and 
went,  that  the  first  doubts  as  to  the  happiness  and  fit 
ness  of  her  future  found  their  way  into  Ninita's  heart, 
and  bred  trouble  there.  They  were  only  little  doubts, 
at  first ;  but  they  grew,  and  grew,  until  at  last  they 
wrenched  and  tortured  her  whole  being.  She  still  loved 
Manuel,  but  she  felt  that  a  stronger  love  was  taking 
hold  upon  her  ;  and  she  even  hoped  that  an  answering 
love  came  out  to  meet  her  own. 

All  this  was  not  a  matter  of  a  day  or  a  week.  It 
came  gradually.  The  summer  was  slipping  by,  and,  as 
the  hot  days  one  by  one  went  past,  each  marked  a  little 
change  in  Niilita's  heart.  Old  Jose,  finding  that  the 
law  of  the  commonwealth  is  greater  than  the  will  of  the 
individual  citizen,  had  surrendered  sullenly,  and  sullenly 
had  pocketed  the  comfortable  sum  allowed  him  for  his 
wasted  land  ;  but  he  persisted  in  believing  that  Grant 
was  the  cause  of  all  his  troubles,  and  upon  that  par 
ticular  Americano  he  had  concentrated  the  hate  which 
previously  had  been  bestowed  upon  the  American  nation 
at  large.  Old  Manuel  and  young  Manuel  shared  this 
feeling,  for  they  also  felt  that  they  had  suffered  wrong. 
Indeed,  through  all  the  valley  there  was  an  under 
current  of  anger  and  discontent  as  the  country-side  folk 
saw  the  current  setting  do\vn  upon  them  from  the 
North,  and  felt  themselves  powerless  to  stay  it.  They 
cared  nothing  for  progress,  for  improvement,  these  sim 
ple  souls ;  and  they  cared  very  little  for  the  unheard-of 
quantities  of  money  which  were  paid  for  the  damage 


46  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

done  tlieir  lands  in  comparison  with  what  they  cared  for 
the  loss  of  the  lands  themselves.  But  what  irritated 
them  most  keenly,  though  not  one  of  them  could  under 
stand,  much  less  explain,  this  feeling,  was  the  sudden 
inroad  of  a  civilization  utterly  unlike,  utterly  inhar 
monious  with,  their  own.  Instinctively  they  recognized 
the  advent  of  a  race  stronger  than  theirs,  which  must  of 
necessity  first  subjugate  and  then  exterminate  them — 
not  by  force  of  arms,  but  by  force  of  brains.  These 
white  men  from  the  North  were  invaders,  surely  destined 
to  be  conquerors ;  nor  were  they  the  less  to  be  dreaded 
because  they  came  as  friends  and  were  free-handed  with 
their  gold.  In  body  and  brain  they  were  the  superiors 
of  the  people  among  whom  they  came ;  by  the  inevi 
table  law  of  nature  theirs  must  be  the  dominant  race. 
Not  a  single  Mexican  ever  went  through  this  analysis  of 
his  hatred  of  the  incoming  Americanos  •  but,  all  the 
same,  the  hatred  was  there,  and  this  was  its  cause.  It 
did  not  show  on  the  surface,  but  it  smoldered  hot  be 
neath  the  crust  of  good  manners  with  which  all  Mexicans 
are  veneered. 

And  Nifiita  had  so  far  forgotten  the  sentiment  of 
her  people,  the  will  of  her  father,  and  her  faith  to  her 
lover,  that  she  had  suffered  her  love  to  go  out  toward 
one  of  these  hated  strangers  ;  and,  even  more  than  this, 
she  had  so  far  forgotten  her  maidenly  dignity  that  she 
had  given  her  love  unasked.  In  his  curt  fashion,  so  un 
like  the  gracious  forms  of  speech  to  which  she  had  been 
through  all  her  life  accustomed,  John  Grant  had  said 
many  civil  things  to  the  Mexican  beauty ;  and  he  cer 
tainly  did  very  unnecessarily  prolong  his  dealings  with 
her  father,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  might  in- 


NINITA.  4Y 

crease  his  opportunities  for  seeing  her  pretty  face. 
During  all  the  summer,  while  the  embankment  was 
creeping  down  the  valley — coming  to  and  crossing  Jose's 
field  and  passing  on  to  the  southward — he  made  many 
excuses  for  holding  interviews  with  the  master  of  the 
old  adobe  house  in  Santa  Cruz.  Being  courteously  re 
ceived  on  these  occasions — given  to  eat  if  his  visit  hap 
pened  upon  a  meal-time,  and  to  drink  if  it  did  not — 
•Grant  promptly  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  old 
Mexican  had  been  humbugging  him  all  along,  and  was 
only  too  <jflad  to  get  his  land  oif  his  hands  at  so  <?ood  a 

«/  o  o  o 

price ;  a  conclusion  as  near  the  truth  as  the  guesses  of  a 
man  of  one  race  usually  are  about  the  feelings  of  a  man 
of  another. 

As  to  making  love  seriously  to  ISnnita,  Grant  never  ' 
once  thought  of  it.  Marrying  a  Mexican  and  marrying 
a  mulatto  were  much  the  same  thing  to  his  Saxon  mind ; 
and  he  was  a  good  fellow  in  the  main,  and  was  alto 
gether  above  the  love-making  that  could  end  only  in  her 
wrong.  But  it  was  only  natural,  he  thought,  to  amuse 
himself  a  little  with  this  pretty  girl  whom  fate  had 
brought  across  his  path.  His  work  was  hard  enough, 
and  his  life  was  lonely  enough  down  in  that  semi-barbar 
ous  region,  he  felt,  to  entitle  him  to  play  a  little  when 
he  had  a  chance.  Nor  did  he  for  a  moment  think,  to 
do  him  justice,  that  his  play  could  be  mistaken  by  Ninita 
for  earnest.  In  the  civilization  that  he  understood,  men 
might  make  pretty  speeches  to  pretty  girls  without  a 
serious  meaning  attaching  to  their  light  words  ;  he  did 
not  realize  that  in  this  other  civilization  which  he  had 
come  upon  things  were  not  the  same.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  realize  that  this  new  phase  of  life  that  he  had  en- 


48  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

countered  was  a  civilization  at  all.  "When  he  wrote  to 
his  friends  in  the  East  he  described  himself  as  living 
among  half-reclaimed  savages,  and  he  believed  this  de 
scription  to  be  the  truth.  So,  when  he  had  the  chance, 
he  said  nice  things  in  his  jerky  Spanish  to  Nifiita,  and 
was  not  a  little  pleased  to  see  the  color  come  into  her 
pretty  brown  face  and  the  long  lashes  droop  over  her 
beautiful  brown  eyes. 

He  did  not  have  such  chances  often,  for  Mexican 
girls  are  sharply  looked  after,  especially  when  an 
Americano  is  near.  But  now  and  then  he  would  come 
upon  her  standing  in  the  gateway — as  on  the  day  when 
he  saw  her  for  the  first  time — and  once  or  twice  he  was 
so  fortunate  as  to  meet  her  at  the  spring.  And  so,  little 
by  little,  without  knowing  it  and  without  meaning  to  do 
it,  he  stole  Nifiita's  heart  away. 

The  summer  now  was  nearly  ended.  The  embank 
ment  had  gone  on  down  the  valley,  past  the  village,  and 
the  trains  had  begun  to  run— constant  sources  of  won 
der  and  alarm  to  the  simple  folk  who  up  to  this  time 
had  held  that,  besides  their  own  legs,  l>urros  and  rattling 
ox-carts  were  the  only  known  means  of  transportation. 
Grant's  work  near  Santa  Cruz  was  ended,  and  he  was 
going  back  to  the  East;  he  had  had  enough  of  the 
barbarism  of  the  Southwest,  he  said. 

Perhaps,  had  Xiilita  known  that  he  was  so  soon  to 
leave  her,  she  would  not  have  gone  that  evening  to  the 
chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Carmen  to  pray.  But  she  did 
not  know  it,  and  her  troubled  heart  sorely  needed  com 
fort  and  rest.  That  day,  as  she  was  coming  from  the 
spring  in  the  sunset  light,  Manuel  had  met  her,  and  had 
asked  her,  very  gently  and  tenderly,  why  she  had  so 


NIX1TA.  49 

changed.  Had  lie  been  harsh,  had  he  insisted  upon  his 
right  to  her  love,  she  might  not  have  felt  very  deeply 
his  reproaches.  But  it  was  not  in  Manuel's  nature  to  be 
harsh  with  Xifiita,  and  the  love  that  he  asked  for  was 
asked  for  humbly.  In  the  evening  lierht,  he  looked 

*j  o          o         / 

down  upon  her  with  the  love  in  his  eyes  that  once  had 
seemed  to  her  so  perfect  and  so  satisfying ;  and  she  had 
almost  cursed  herself  because,  as  she  turned  toward  him, 
his  dark  face  and  eyes  and  hair  disappeared  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  in  their  stead  came  a  vision  of  blue  eyes  set 
in  a  fair  face,  framed  in  yellow  hair  and  beard.  She 
could  not  answer  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives  he  had  gone  from  her  sorrowing. 

This  was  the  trouble  that  Niilita  had  taken  to  Our 
Lady  over  in  the  chapel ;  and  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  heart  she  had  prayed  that  the  love  which  was  in  her 
might  be  guided  in  the  right  way.  As  she  came  out 
through  the  dusky  church  into  the  white  starlight,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  prayer  had  been  answered.  The 
gentle  Lady  seemed  to  have  told  her  that  her  love  be 
longed  to  her  own  people,  not  to  strangers;  and 
presently  she  found  herself  softly  saying  over  and  over, 
under  her  breath,  Manuel's  name — just  as  she  used  to 
do  before  the  Americanos  came  down  into  the  land. 
For  the  first  time  in  a  long  while  she  was  possessed  by 
a  spirit  of  love  and  peace.  Our  Lady  had  heard  and 
had  answered  her  prayer. 

She  went  out  and  seated  herself  upon  the  stones  in 

front  of  the  gateway — looking  in  across  the  court-yard, 

and  over  the  adobe  wall  beyond,  at  the  young  moon 

just  rising  above  the  mountains.     As  she  sat  there,  still 

4 


50  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  happy,  she  heard  the  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  out 
upon  the  road  that  led  across  the  mesa  to  Espafiola. 
The  regular  cadence  made  a  little  tune  in  her  mind,  to 
which  she  said  "  Ma-nu-el,  Ma-nu-el,"  half  unconsciously. 
The  hoof -beats  came  nearer,  softly  over  the  bit  of  sandy 
road  beyond  the  padres  garden,  and  then  with  a  clatter 
up  the  stony  hill  behind  the  church.  Then,  before  she 
realized  it,  the  horse  had  crossed  the  plaza,  and  John 
Grant  had  dismounted  and  was  standing  by  her  side. 
How  beautiful  he  looked  standing  there,  uncovered,  in 
the  moonlight !  Kinita's  heart  beat  hard,  and  all  the 
peace  that  her  prayer  had  given  her  was  gone ! 

He  had  come  to  bid  good-by,  Grant  said.  He  was 
going  away — going  to  his  home  far  off  across  the  plains 
and  mountains;  he  feared  that  he  never  would  see  the 
senorita  again ;  he  was  glad  that  he  had  met  her  thus 
alone ;  would  she  be  sorry  when  he  was  gone  ? 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  real  feel 
ing  in  his  tone — for  no  one,  not  even  a  cool-headed 
Americano,  could  know  Niflita  without  loving  her  at 
least  a  little — and  the  tone  meant  more  for  her  than 
the  words.  All  that  she  felt  was  that  he  did  love  her, 
and  that  he  was  going  away.  In  spite  of  herself  she 
gave  a  little  sob. 

"  Poor  little  girl ;  then  you  are  sorry  ? "  said  Grant, 
gently.  He  felt  very  kindly  toward  her,  seeing  how 
truly  she  grieved  because  he  was  going  away. 

"  And  will  the  senorita  give  a  little  kiss — un  fasito 
— in  parting?"  he  added. 

He  had  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  as  he  spoke, 
and  as  he  touched  her  he  felt  her  tremble.  For  an  in 
stant  she  did  not  answer.  Then,  with  a  sudden,  pas- 


51 

sionate  movement,  she  turned  toward  him,  flung  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his.  It 
was  un  beso — not  im  besito — and  the  memory  of  it 
staid  by  him  to  his  last  day. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps.  Grant  gently  un 
clasped  the  arms  from  about  his  neck,  and  said,  in  Eng 
lish — for  Ninita's  kiss  had  startled  him  so  much  that  his 
small  stock  of  Spanish  was  all  gone  from  him — "  Good- 
by,  dear  child !  God  bless  you ! "  Then  he  jumped  on 
his  horse  and  galloped  away. 

Ninita  stood  dizzily  for  a  moment.  Then  she  heard 
her  father's  voice,  but  sharp  and  cruel :  "  Thou  hast  dis 
graced  thy  name ! "  And  another  voice,  broken  and 
piteous,  said :  "  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  love !  " 

This,  then,  wras  the  answer  that  Our  Lady  had  given 
to  her  prayer !  She  sank  down  slowly,  miserably  upon 
the  stones. 

After  what  seemed  to  her  a  long  while,  she  heard 
her  father's  voice  again  :  "  There  is  work  for  us  to  do 
to-night,  Manuel.  Get  thy  knife  and  thy  horse  !  "  In 
a  dreamy  way  she  heard  departing  footsteps,  and  then, 
after  a  while — she  could  not  tell  how  long —  the  tramp 
of  horses.  Her  father,  rode  out  through  the  gateway, 
close  by  her  side,  and  she  heard  him  call  Manuel's 
name ;  she  heard  Manuel  answer,  and  she  heard  the 
sound  of  the  horses'  feet  on  the  stony  hill  behind  the 
church,  as  the  two  rode  away  together  through  the 
faint  moonlight.  As  she  lay  there  in  dumb  agony,  she 
knew  that  her  father  and  her  lover  had  ridden  out  into 
the  night  to  kill  John  Grant. 

Grant  had   ten  miles  before  him  to  the  camp   at 


52  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Chamita,  but  he  knew  the  road,  and  he  had  the  light 
of  the  young  moon.  It  was  a  still,  delicious  night — 
the  sort  of  night  that  comes  often  in  New  Mexico — 
and  he  rode  slowly,  that  he  might  enjoy  it  to  the  full. 
This  was  his  last  ride  along  the  lovely  Rio  Grande  val 
ley — he  was  to  start  for  the  States  the  next  evening — 
and  he  wanted  to  make  the  most  of  it.  And  even  had 
he  not  been  disposed  to  ride  slowly  for  the  ride's  sake, 
his  queer  adventure  with  the  pretty  Mexican  would  have 
made  him  forget  to  press  his  horse  to  speed.  lie  was 
a  good  deal  astonished  by  Ninita's  demonstration,  and  a 
good  deal  flattered  by  it,  as  any  man  would  have  been. 

"  Poor  little  body !  I  really  do  believe  that  she  loves 
me,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  good  deal  of  quiet  com 
placency. 

And  then  he  fell  to  wondering  how  much  of  his 

o 

adventure  it  would  be  advisable  to  tell  to  Miss  Eleanor 
WMttredge,  of  Boston — for  whose  use  and  benefit  he 
had  spent  a  month's  pay  in  the  purchase  of  an  engage 
ment  ring,  the  last  time  he  had  been  in  the  States.  And 
so  his  thoughts  wandered  back  and  forth  from  the  East 
to  the  West ;  from  Miss  TVliittredge  in  Boston,  whom 
he  loved  sincerely,  and  whose  dignified  person  and  char 
acter  he  as  sincerely  respected,  to  this  wild  little  Mexi 
can  girl  in  Santa  Cruz,  who  had  startled  him  with  a  kiss 
such  as  all  the  Miss  Whittredges  in  the  world  together 
could  not  give.  He  went  slowly  over  the  mesa,  slowly 
across  the  bridge  to  Espanola,  and  slowly  along  by  the 
river-side  toward  Chamita.  The  night  was  perfect,  and 
his  thoughts  moved  about  pleasantly  in  his  mind.  Once, 
when  he  aroused  himself,  he  heard  horses  galloping  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river — along  the  shorter  road  from 


53 

Santa  Cruz  to  Cliamita,  that  crossed  the  river  at  the 
ford.  Had  he  been  in  a  hurry,  he  would  have  taken 
that  road  himself  ;  but  he  was  not  in  a  hurry.  People 
down  in  New  Mexico  have  a  habit  of  galloping  about 
the  country  at  night,  and,  unless  they  happen  to  be  gal 
loping  up  behind  you,  you  do  not  pay  much  attention 
to  them.  So  Grant  relapsed  into  his  musing. 

He  was  aroused  very  completely,  just  as  he  had 
passed  a  clump  of  pinones,  by  a  rush  of  horses  toward 
him,  and  by  a  thrill  of  pain  as  a  knife  sliced  its  way 
into  his  left  arm.  Had  not  his  own  horse  swerved  just 
as  the  thrust  was  made  at  him,  that  ride  in  the  moon 
light  would  have  been  his  last.  Grant  had  not  lived 
for  five  years  on  the  plains,  and  for  a  year  more  in 
Kew  Mexico,  without  picking  up  enough  of  the  customs 
of  the  country  to  know  what  to  do  in  such  an  emer 
gency.  He  struck  his  long  Mexican  spurs  into  his  horse, 
and  felt  for  his  revolver.  There  was  not  much  satisfac 
tion  in  finding  that  his  pistol-pocket  was  empty  ;  he  had 
left  his  revolver  in  camp !  If  the  other  people  had  pis 
tols,  it  was  all  up  with  him  ;  if  they  had  only  knives,  he 
had  a  chance  of  getting  oft'.  Ilis  horse  was  a  good  one 
and  fresh,  and  the  bound  he  had  given  when  he  felt  the 
spurs  had  left  the  others  behind.  So  he  rode  onward 
through  the  moonlight,  crouching  down  over  the  high 
pommel^of  his  saddle,  and  expecting  every  moment  to 
feel  a  pistol-ball  cracking  in  through  his  ribs. 

But  the  ball  did  not  come. 

"  They  must  be  Mexicans,"  he  thought,  "  and  that  ac 
counts  for  their  being  without  pistols  and  operating 
with  knives." 

This  reflection  comforted  him  a  little ;  but  he  knew 


54  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

that  a  single  unarmed  man  against  two  men  armed — even 
though  the  two  be  Mexicans,  and  armed  only  with  knives 
— has  only  a  trifling  chance  of  coming  out  victor.  lie 
gave  his  horse  the  spurs  again,  and  set  his  teeth  hard  ; 
and  so  he  went  along  the  river  road,  not  ten  yards 
ahead  of  the  Mexicans,  for  a  couple  of  miles.  Then 
the  luck  turned  in  his  favor. 

As  he  rounded  a  bend  in  the  road  he  came  upon 
three  of  his  own  men,  who  had  halted  and  faced  about 
when  they  heard  horses  galloping  up  behind  them. 
They  sat  quite  still :  two  of  them  holding  cocked  revolv 
ers,  the  third  with  a  Winchester  all  ready  to  bring  up 
to  Ins  shoulder. 

"  It  is  I — Grant ;  these  brutes  have  cut  me.  Shoot ! " 
he  shouted,  as  he  recognized  the  party.  In  the  East,  an 
order  of  this  sort  might  be  questioned.  In  the  South 
west,  we  shoot  lirst  and  question  afterward.  The  two 
revolvers  and  the  rifle  cracked  together,  and  the  fore 
most  of  the  two  Mexicans  fell  with  three  balls  through 
him — all  three  had  shot  at  the  same  man.  The  other 
Mexican  went  straight  through  Grant's  party,  and  on 
like  a  flash  up  the  road.  But  he  did  not  go  far.  The 
Winchester  cracked  again,  and  his  horse  galloped  on 
with  an  empty  saddle. 

"  That  was  a  close  call,  old  fellow.  I  didn't  think 
these  Mexican  hounds  had  pluck  enough  to  turn  high 
way  robbers.  But  we've  settled  'em  this  time.  Win 
chesters  and  revolvers  are  ahead  of  Mexican  knives  ev 
ery  time — eh,  old  man  ?  " 

But  Grant  did  not  answer.     lie  was  dizzy  and  faint. 

"  Take  him  into  camp,  Jim  ;  "NTed  and  I'll  look  after 
these  beggars.  We've  got  to  hunt  up  the  alcalde  at 


NINITA.  55 

Espafiola,  I  suppose,  and  make  depositions  and  give 
ourselves  up  for  trial,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  An  awful 
waste  of  time  over  two  blackguard  Mexicans ;  but  it 
can't  be  helped,  you  know. — By  Jove!  there's  blood 
running  out  of  your  sleeve,  Grant.  You  must  have  an 
ugly  hole  in  you.  Here,  get  your  coat  off  and  let's  tie 
you  up,  and  keep  you  from  leaking." 

So  Grant  was  tied  up,  and  then  taken  into  camp, 
where  he  fainted  dead  away. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  and  again  Ni- 
fiita  went  into  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady,  and  knelt  upon 
the  clay  floor — not  near  the  sweet  image,  but  far  away 
from  it  in  the  darkness. 

Niilita's  heart  was  broken — was  dead.  She  could 
not  pray.  She  scarcely  knew  why  she  had  come  to 
the  chapel ;  there  only  stirred  in  her  a  vague  feeling 
that  here,  though  the  gracious  Lady  no  longer  could  be 
her  friend,  no  longer  could  listen  to  her  prayers,  at  least 
she  would  not  be  crushed  to  the  earth  by  cruel,  bitter 
words.  ISTo  one  could  be  her  friend  any  more.  Her 
mother  had  cursed  her  when  her  father  was  brought 
home  dead  ;  had  told  her  :  "  This  is  thy  work.  Go  thou 
also,  with  thy  sins  upon  thee,  and  die  !  "  and  old  Manu 
el,  looking  upon  his  dead  son,  had  echoed  her  mother's 
curse.  Even  the  padre,  the  good  padre,  had  turned 
from  her  when  she  looked  toward  him  with  her  eyes 
imploring  pity.  As  she  stood  in  the  gateway  the  peo 
ple  of  the  village  had  crowded  about  her,  and  their 
words  of  cruel  abuse  even  yet  were  ringing  in  her 
ears. 

Yet,  had  she  really  sinned  ?     She  could  not  think 


56  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

so.  In  her  own  heart  she  knew  that  that  kiss  was  a  kiss 
of  renunciation  and  farewell.  Much  of  her  life  went 
with  it,  but  all  of  her  life  that  was  left  would  have  been 
Manuel's.  She  was  sure  of  this,  and  she  was  sure  that 
Our  Lady  would  have  given  her  strength  to  forget,  after 
a  while,  the  love  that  had  so  mastered  her,  and  would 
have  made  her  love  for  Manuel  once  more  strong  and 
true.  If!  O  God,  if — and  Nifiita  bowed  her  head, 
and  a  great  agony  filled  her  soul. 

No,  there  was  no  use  praying.  Our  Lady  looked 
down  upon  her  no  longer  gently,  but  with  a  grave  se 
verity  that  turned  her  broken  heart  to  stone.  Not  even 
here  could  there  be  comfort  for  her.  She  must  indeed 
have  sinned  if  the  gracious  image  turned  against  her  ; 
and  then  in  her  ears  sounded  again  her  mother's  words : 
"  Go  thou  also,  with  thy  sins  upon  thee,  and  die."  Yes, 
that  was  all  that  there  was  left  for  her  to  do.  It  would 
be  very  easy  to  die ;  and,  perhaps,  in  death  there  would 
be  peace.  - 

She  knelt  there  for  a  long  time,  while  the  darkness 
gathered  around  her.  How  very,  very  long  ago  it 
seemed  to  her  was  that  evening  when  she  had  knelt  and 
asked  Our  Lady  to  guide  aright  her  love ;  and  yet  she 
knew  that  it  had  been  but  the  evening  of  the  day  before. 
But  time  had  ceased  to  have  any  meaning  for  Nifiita ; 
she  was  already  reaching  out  into  the  dim  vastness  of 
eternity. 

Through  the  still  night,  as  she  knelt  there  silently, 
prayerless,  there  came  the  sound  of  a  locomotive-whistle 
— it  was  the  night  express  for  the  North.  The  train 
was  still  miles  away  down  the  line,  for  sound  travels 
very  far  in  that  still,  pure  air,  and  more  than  a  quarter 


NlSflTA.  57 

of  an  hour  would  pass  before  it  would  go  thundering  by 
the  village  and  up  the  valley  beyond. 

Suddenly,  Ninita  gave  a  little  shudder.  Then  she 
rose  steadily  and  walked  out  through  the  darkness  of 
the  church  into  the  faint  moonlight — walked  on  down 
the  hill  behind  the  church,  past  the  padrds  garden,  out 
into  the  fields  beyond,  and  so  at  last  to  where  the  rail 
road  swept  around  a  curve  through  a  grove  of  cotton- 
woods.  This  was  the  field  that  was  to  have  been  her 
marriage  portion.  It  was  under  those  cotton-woods,  by 
the  aceguia,  that  she  and  Manuel  had  made  little  adobes 
in  the  years  so  long  gone  by.  She  noticed  how  greatly 
the  trees  had  grown,  and  wondered  to  herself  that  she 
had  never  noticed  it  before.  Through  their  branches 
she  could  see  the  head-light  of  the  engine,  a  great  ball 
of  fire,  coming  up  the  line.  She  did  not  know  that 
Grant  was  sitting  in  the  lobby  of  the  sleeping-car — 
looking  a  little  pale,  but  not  much  the  Avorse  for  the 
wound  he  was  telling  the  conductor  about  as  he  smoked 
his  cigar.  It  was  better  that  Niilita  did  not  know  how 
close  Grant  was  to  her.  At  least  one  added  pang  of 
grief  was  spared  her  at  the  last. 

"  Must'  a '  been  one  of  them  Mexican  goats,  I  guess, 
Bill,"  said  the  engineer  of  the  express  to  his  fireman,  as 
they  felt  a  little  jar,  just  as  the  engine  rounded  the 
curve,  and  then  saw  something  black  glance  down  the 
embankment  and  fall  among  the  trees. 

"  Guess  so.  Serve  him  right  for  bein'  fool  enough 
to  go  to  sleep  on  the  track.  Just  like  a  Mexican  goat 
to  do  that.  Goats  and  Mexicans,  they're  all  much  of  a 
muchness,  and  all  d —  -  fools  together.  What's  the  use 


58  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

of  any  of  'em  /don't  know,  and  I  haven't  found  the  fel 
low  that  does."  And  the  engine  and  train,  the  advance 
guard  of  the  coming  race,  swept  on  up  the  line. 

Down  under  the  cotton-wood,  by  the  acequia,  Xi- 
fiita — one  poor  little  soul  of  the  race  that  must  go — lay 
dead. 


PANCHA :  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY. 

"WHEN  the  Coride  de  Monterey,  being  then  Viceroy 
of  this  gracious  realm  of  Xew  Spain,  sent  his  viceregal 
commissioners,  attended  by  holy  priests,  up  into  the 
northern  country  to  choose  a  site  for  an  outpost  city, 
there  was  found  no  spot  more  beautiful,  none  more 
worthy  to  be  thus  honored,  than  this  where  the  city  of 
Monterey  stands  to-day.  And  so  the  commissioners 
halted  beside  the  great  spring,  the  ojo  de  ayua,  that 
gushes  out  from  its  tangle  of  white  pebbles  in  what  now 
is  the  very  heart  of  the  town ;  and  the  priests  set  up 
the  sacred  cross  and  sang  a  sweet  song  of  praise  and 
thankfulness  to  the  good  God  who  had  so  well  guided 
them  to  where  they  would  be  ;  and  the  colonists  entered 
in  and  possessed  the  land. 

This  all  happened  upon  a  fair  day  now  close  upon 
three  hundred  years  gone  by.  From  century  to  century 
the  city  has  grown,  yet  always  in  accord  with  the  lines 
established  by  its  founders.  The  houses  a-building  now 
are  as  the  houses  built  three  hundred  years  ago  ;  and, 
going  yet  farther  into  the  past,  as  the  houses  which  were 
built  by  the  Moors  when  they  came  into  the  Gothic 
peninsula,  bringing  with  them  the  life  and  customs  of  a 
land  that  even  then  was  old.  So  it  has  come  to  pass 


60  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

that  the  traveler  who  sojourns  here — having  happily 
left  behind  him  on  the  farther  side  of  the  Ilio  Grande 
the  bustle  and  confusion  and  hurtful  toil  of  this  over- 
powering  nineteenth  century — very  well  can  believe 
himself  transported  back  to  that  blessed  time  and  coun 
try  in  which  the  picturesque  was  ranked  above  the  prac 
tical,  and  in  which  not  the  least  of  human  virtues  was 
the  virtue  of  repose. 

Very  beautiful  is  the  site  of  Monterey  :  its  noble 
flanking  mountains,  the  Silla  and  the  Mitras,  are  east 
and  west  of  it ;  its  grand  rampart,  the  Sierra  Madre, 
sweeps  majestically  from  flank  to  flank  to  the  south 
ward,  and  its  outlying  breastwork,  a  range  of  far-away 
blue  peaks,  is  seen  mistily  off  in  the  north.  And  the 
city  is  in  keeping  with  its  setting.  The  quaint,  myste 
rious  houses,  inclosing  sunny  gardens  and  tree-planted 
court-yards ;  the  great  cathedral  where,  in  the  dusk  of 
evening,  at  vespers,  one  may  see  each  night  new  won 
ders,  Rembrandt-like,  beautiful,  in  light  and  shade ;  the 
church  of  St.  Francis,  and  the  old  ruined  church  beside 
it — built,  first  of  all,  in  honor  of  the  saint  who  had 
guided  the  Viceroy's  commissioners  so  well ;  the  bowery 
plaza,  with  the  great  dolphin-fountain  in  its  center,  and 
the  tree-clad  plazuelas,  also  with  fountains ;  the  narrow 
streets  ;  the  old-time  market-place,  alive  with  groups  of 
buyers  and  sellers  fit  to  make  glad  a  painters  heart — 
all  these  picturesque  glories,  together  with  many  more, 
unite  to  make  the  perfect  picturesqueness  of  Monterey. 

Yet  Pancha,  who  had  been  born  in  Monterey,  and 
who  never  had  been  but  a  league  away  from  it  in  the 
whole  space  of  her  little  lifetime,  did  not  know  that 
the  city  in  which  she  lived  was  picturesque  at  all. 


PANCIIA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.  Gl 

She  did  know,  though,  that  she  loved  it  very  dearly. 
Quite  the  saddest  time  that  she  had  ever  passed  through 
*was  the  week  that  she  had  spent  once  at  the  Villa  de 
Guadalupe— a  league  away  to  the  eastward,  at  the  Silla's 
foot — with  her  aunt  Antonia.  It  was  not  that  tia  An- 
tonia  was  not  good  to  her,  nor  that  life  at  the  Villa  de 
Guadalupe — as  well  conducted  a  little  town,  be  it  said, 
with  as  quaint  a  little  church,  as  you  will  iind  in  the 
whole  State  of  Nuevo  Leon — was  not  pleasant  in  its 
way  ;  but  it  was  that  she  longed  for  her  own  home. 
And  when,  coming  back  at  last  to  the  city,  perched  on 
the  forward  portion  of  uncle  Tadeo's  burro,  she  peeped 
over  the  burro's  long  ears — at  the  place  where  the  road 
turns  sharply  just  before  it  dips  to  cross  the  valley — 
and  caught  sight  once  more  of  the  dome  of  the  cathe 
dral,  and  the  clock-tower  of  the  market-house,  and  the 
old  Bishop's  Palace  on  its  hill  in  the  far  background, 
with  the  Mitras  rising  beyond,  and  a  flame  of  red  and 
gold  above  the  Sierra  left  when  the  sun  went  down  : 
when  Pancha's  longing  eyes  rested  once  more  on  all 
these  dear  sights  of  home,  she  buried  her  little  face  in 
tio  Tadeo's  pudgy  shoulder  and  fairly  sobbed  for  joy. 

Many  a  person,  though,  coming  a  stranger  and  with 
a  stranger's  prejudices  into  this  gentle,  lovely  Mexican 
land,  would  have  thought  Pancha's  love  of  home  quite 
incomprehensible  ;  for  her  home,  the  house  in  which  she 
dwelt,  was  not  lovely  to  eyes  brought  up  with  a  rigor 
ous  faith  in  right  angles  and  the  monotonous  regularity 
of  American  city  walls.  In  point  of  fact,  persons  of 
this  sort  might  have  held — and,  after  their  light,  with 
some  show  of  justice — that  Pancha's  home  was  not  a 
house  at  all. 


62  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Crossing  the  city  of  Monterey  from  west  to  east  is  a 
little  valley,  the  arroyo  of  Santa  Lucia,  into  which,  mid 
way  in  its  passage,  comes  through  another  arroyo  of  a 
few  hundred  yards  in  length  the  water  from  the  ojo  de 
agua — the  great  spring  whereat  the  Conde's  commis 
sioners  paused  content,  and  beside  which  the  holy  fa 
thers  sang  songs  of  praise.  Along  both  banks  of  these 
two  little  valleys  grow  trees,  and  canebrakes,  and  bana 
na  groves,  and  all  manner  of  bushes  and  most  pleasant 
grass  ;  and  in  among  the  bushes  and  trees,  here  and 
there,  are  little  huts  of  wattled  golden  cane  overlaid 
with  a  thatch  of  brown.  It  was  in  one  of  these  jacales, 
standing  a  stone's-throw  below  the  causeway  that  crosses 
the  awoyo  of  the  ojo  de  ayita,  upon  the  point  of  land 
that  juts  out  between  the  two  valleys  before  they  become 
one,  that  Pancha  was  born,  and  where  most  contentedly 
she  lived.  Over  the  jacal  towered  a  great  pecan-tree; 
and  a  banana  grew  graciously  beside  it,  and  back  of  it 
was  a  huddle  of  feathery,  waving  canes.  Truly  it  was 
not  a  grand  home,  but  Pancha  loved  it ;  nor  would  she 
have  exchanged  it  even  for  one  of  the  fine  houses  the 
stone  walls  of  which  you  could  see  above  and  beyond  it, 
showing  gray  through  the  green  of  the  trees. 

For  nearly  all  the  years  of  her  little  life  the  love  of 
the  beautiful  city  of  Monterey,  of  her  poor  little  home 
that  yet  was  so  dear  to  her,  of  the  good  father  and 
mother  who  had  cared  for  her  so  well  since  she  came  to 
them  from  the  kind  God  who  sends  beautiful  children 
into  the  world,  for  her  little  brother  and  sister,  the  twins 
Antonio  and  Antonia,  who  gave  a  world  of  trouble — 
for  they  were  sad  pickles — but  who  repaid  her  by  a 
world  of  childish  lovingness  for  her  care :  for  nearly  all 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.      63 

her  life  long  these  loves  had  sufficed  to  fill  and  to  satisfy 
Pancha's  heart.  But  within  a  year  now  a  new  love,  a  love 
that  was  stronger  and  deeper  than  all  of  these  put  to 
gether,  had  come  to  her  and  had  grown  to  be  a  part  of 
her  life.  And  Pancha  knew,  down  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  that  this  love  had  begun  on  the  very  first  day  that 
her  eyes  had  rested  upon  Pepe's  gallant  figure  and  hand 
some  face — the  day  when  Pepe,  having  been  made  cap 
tain  of  a  brave  company  of  contrabandistas,  had  come 
up  to  Monterey  to  partake  of  the  Holy  Sacrament  at 
Easter,  and  to  be  blessed  by  his  old  father,  and  to  receive 
the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 

Pancha's  father,  Cristobal,  a  worthy  cargador  who 
never  in  the  whole  twenty  years  that  he  had  discharged 

v       v  O 

the  responsible  duties  of  his  calling  had  lost  or  injured 
a  single  article  confided  to  his  care,  and  old  Manuel, 
who  held  the  honorable  position  of  sereno — a  member 
of  the  night-watch — in  the  city  of  Monterey,  had  known 
each  other  from  a  time  long  before  Pancha  was  born  ; 
and  from  a  full  understanding  of  each  other's  good 
qualities,  and  from  certain  affinities  and  common  tastes, 
the  two  old  fellows  had  come  in  the  course  of  years  to 
be  the  closest  of  friends.  Cristobal  the  cargador — bet 
ter  known,  being  a  little  bandy-legged  man,  as  Tobalito 
— was  scarcely  less  delighted  than  was  Manuel  himself 
when  Pepe,  a  motherless  lad  who  had  grown  to  man 
hood  in  the  care  of  a  good  aunt,  came  up  from  his 
home  in  Tamaulipas  that  Easter-tide  to  tell  of  his  good 
fortune.  The  boy  was  a  gallant  boy,  they  both  agreed 
— as  they  drank  his  health  more  times  than  was  quite 
good  for  them  in  Parras  brandy  of  the  best,  on  which 
never  a  tlaco  of  duty  had  been  paid — and  before  him 


61  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

had  opened  now  a  magnificent  future.  Being  a  captain 
of  contraband  istas  at  twenty-two,  what  might  lie  not  be 
at  thirty  ?  His  fortune  was  assured  !  And  old  Cata- 
hna  shared  in  this  joy  of  her  husband's  and  of  her  hus 
band's  friend,  and  drank  also,  relishingly,  a  little  mug  of 
brandy  to  Pepe's  good  fortune — present  and  to  come. 
Even  the  twins,  Antonio  and  Antonia,  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  the  festive  occasion,  and  manifested  their  ap 
preciation  of  it  by  refraining  from  signal  mischief  for 
the  space  of  a  whole  hour  :  at  the  end  of  which  period 
Pancha,  perceiving  that  they  were  engaged  in  imitating 
the  process  of  washing  clothes  in  the  stream,  and  judg 
ing  rightly  that  the  earnestness  of  their  operations 
boded  no  good,  was  just  in  time  to  rescue  the  yellow  cat 
from  a  watery  grave.  And  it  was  on  this  happy  day, 
as  Pancha  knew  afterward,  that  her  love  for  Pepe  first 
began. 

This  was  a  year  past,  now  ;  and  for  many  months 
Pancha  had  been  gladdened  by  the  knowledge  that  her 
love  was  returned — though,  as  yet,  this  sweet  certainty 
had  not  come  to  her  in  words.  Indeed,  during  the  past 
twelvemonth  Pepe  had  been  but  little  in  Monterey.  As 
became  a  young  captain  of  contrdbandistas  who  longed 
to  prove  that  he  deserved  to  wear  his  spurs,  his  time 
had  been  passed  for  the  most  part  in  making  handsome 
dashes  from  the  Zona  Libre  into  the  interior.  Already 
the  fame  of  his  brilliant  exploits  was  great  along  the 
frontier  ;  already  to  the  luckless  officers  of  the  contra- 
resguardo  his  name  was  a  mocking  and  a  reproach. 
AVhat  with  his  knowledge  of  the  mountain  paths  and 
hiding-places,  his  boldness  and  his  prudence,  his  infor 
mation — coming  it  might  be  treason  to  say  from  where, 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.  G5 

but  always  exact  and  trustworthy — of  where  the  revenue 
people  would  be  at  any  hour  of  any  day  or  night,  the 
contraresguardo  seemed  to  have  no  more  chance  of 
catching  him  than  they  had  of  catching  the  wind  of 
heaven  or  the  moon  itself. 

Once,  indeed,  Pope  had  a  narrow  escape.  At  the 
outskirts  of  Lampazos  word  came  to  him  that  the  cus 
toms  guard  was  at  his  very  heels.  There  was  no  hid 
ing-place  near  ;  to  run  for  it  with  a  train  of  heavily 
laden  burros  was  of  no  earthly  use  at  all ;  to  run  for  it 
without  the  burros  would  have  been  a  disgrace.  And 
Pepe  did  not  attempt  to  run.  As  fast  as  they  could  be 
driven  he  drove  the  burros  into  the  town,  and  halted 
them  in  squads  of  three  and  four  at  friendly  houses  ; 
spoke  a  word  or  two  at  each  door,  and  then  galloped  off 
with  his  men  into  the  outer  wilderness  of  chaparral. 
And  when,  ten  minutes  later,  the  men  of  the  contrares 
guardo  came  nourishing  into  Lampazos,  certain  of  vic 
tory  at  last,  not  a  vestige  of  the  contrabando  could  they 
find !  True,  in  the  patios  of  a  dozen  houses  were  cer 
tain  weary-looking  burros  whose  backs  were  warm,  and 
near  them  were  pack-saddles  which  were  warm  also  ; 
but  what  had  been  upon  those  pack-saddles  no  man 
could  surely  say.  The  explanation  vouchsafed  that  the 
lading  had  been  fire-wood  was  not,  all  things  considered, 
wholly  satisfactory ;  but  it  could  not  be  disproved.  And 
as  the  possession  of  warm  pack-saddles  and  warm-backed 
burros  is  not  an  indictable  offense  even  in  Mexico,  the 
contraresguardo  could  do  nothing  better  in  the  prem 
ises  than  swear  with  much  heartiness  and  ride  sullenly 
away.  And  to  the  honor  of  Lampazos  be  it  said  that 
when,  in  due  course  of  time,  Pepe  returned  and  with- 
5 


66  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

drew  his  lurro-tr&in  from  the  town,  not  a  single  pack 
age  of  the  contrabando  had  been  stolen  or  lost ! 

cD 

So  Pepe,  by  his  genius  and  his  good  luck,  proved  his 
right  to  wear  his  spurs.  And  the  merchants  of  the  in 
terior  held  him  in  high  esteem ;  and  people  generally 
looked  upon  him  as  a  rising  young  man  ;  and  Pancha, 
who  read  aright  the  story  told  by  his  bold  yet  tender 
brown  eyes,  suffered  herself  to  love  this  gallant  captain 
of  contrabandist's  with  all  her  heart. 

Yet  while  this  was  the  first  time  that  Pancha  had 
loved,  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  love  had  been  given 
her.  A  dozen  young  fellows,  as  everybody  knew,  and 
as  even  she,  though  quite  to  herself,  demurely  acknowl 
edged,  were  in  love  with  her  to  their  very  ears.  One 
or  two  of  them  had  gone  so  far,  indeed,  as  to  open  com 
munications,  through  proper  representatives,  for  the 
rare  favor  of  her  hand.  The  most  earnest,  though  the 
least  demonstrative  of  these,  was  a  certain  captain  in  the 
contraresguardo,  by  name  Pedro  ;  a  good  fellow  in  his 
way,  but  quite  shut  out  beyond  the  pale  of  reputable 
society,  of  course,  by  his  unfortunate  calling. 

Naturally,  Pancha  never  was  likely  to  think  very  se 
riously  of  loving  Pedro  ;  yet  pity  for  him,  acting  on  her 
gentle  heart,  had  made  her  in  some  sort  his  friend.  It 
was  not  altogether  his  fault  that  he  was  an  officer  of  the 
contraresguardo,  and  other  people  besides  Pancha  be 
lieved  that  but  for  this  blight  upon  him  a  good  career 
might  have  been  his.  But  luck  had  been  against  Pedro 
from  the  very  day  of  his  birth  ;  for  when  he  was  born 
his  mother  died,  and  a  little  later  his  father  died  also. 
Being  thus  left  lonely  in  the  world,  he  fell  into  the 
keeping  of  his  uncle,  Padre  Juan,  a  grim  priest  who, 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      67 

having  lost  all  happiness  in  life  himself,  saw  little  reason 
why  he  should  seek  to  make  the  lives  of  others  glad. 
Dismally  the  boy  grew  up  in  this  narrow,  cheerless 
home.  The  Padre  fain  would  have  made  of  him  a 
priest  also  ;  but  against  this  fate  Pedro  rebelled,  and  ac 
cepted,  while  yet  a  boy,  the  alternative  means  of  liveli 
hood  that  his  uncle  oifered  him  in  the  service  of  the 
contraresguardo. 

As  his  rebellion  against  his  proposed  induction  into 
the  priesthood  showed,  the  boy  had  strong  stuff  in  him. 
lie  had  a  mighty  will  of  his  own.  And  there  was  this 
in  common  between  him  and  his  grim  uncle :  a  stern 
resolve,  when  duty  was  clear,  to  do  duty  and  nothing 
else.  Therefore  it  came  to  pass  that  Pedro,  being 
entered  into  the  hateful  service  of  the  customs  pre 
ventive  force,  presently  was  recognized  by  his  superiors 
as  one  of  the  very  few  men  of  the  corps  who,  in  all 
ways,  were  trustworthy  ;  and  as  trustworthiness  is  the 
rarest  of  virtues  in  the  contraresguardo — a  service  so 
hated  that  usually  only  men  of  poor  spirit  will  enter  it 
at  all — his  constant  loyalty  brought  him  quick  promo 
tion  as  its  just  reward.  Yet  Pedro  had  no  happiness  in 
his  advancement.  Each  step  upward,  as  he  very  well 
knew,  was  earned  at  the  cost  of  greater  hatred  and  con 
tempt.  Those  who  would  have  been  his  friends,  had 
the  lines  of  his  life  fallen  differently,  were  his  enemies. 
Nowhere  could  he  hope  to  find  kindliness  and  love. 
Therefore  he  grew  yet  more  stern  and  silent,  and  yet 
more  earnestly  gave  himself  to  the  full  discharge  of  the 
duty  that  was  sacred  to  him  because  it  was  his  duty,  but 
that  in  his  heart  he  abhorred.  Nor  did  he  ever  waver 
in  his  faithfulness  until,  coming  to  know  Pancha,  his 


68  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

cliilled  heart  was  warmed  by  her  sweet  looks  of  friend 
liness,  the  first  that  ever  he  had  known ;  and,  as  fate 
decreed,  the  force  of  duty  found  arrayed  against  it  the 
force  of  love. 

Pancha  had  a  tender,  gentle  nature,  in  which  was 
great  kindliness ;  and  before  she  knew  Pepe  there  was 
some  little  chance,  perhaps,  that  in  sheer  pity  of  his 
forlornness  she  might  have  given  Pedro  her  love.  This, 
of  course,  showed  how  weak  and  how  thoughtless 
Pancha  was ;  how  ignorant  of  the  feelings  of  society ; 
how  careless  of  the  good  opinion  of  the  world.  To  be 
sure,  the  possibility  of  her  loving  Pedro  never  passed 
beyond  a  possibility ;  but  that  it  went  so  far  counted  for 
a  great  deal  to  him,  to  whom,  in  all  his  life,  no  single 
gleam  nor  even  faintest  hope  of  love  had  ever  come. 
The  gentle  glance  or  two  which  she  had  cast  him  in  her 
compassionate  sorrow  for  his  friendlessness  sank  down 
into  the  depths  of  Pedro's  heart,  and  bred  there  for  her 
that  great  love — tender,  yet  almost  stern  in  its  fierce  in 
tensity — to  which  only  a  passionate,  repressed  nature 
can  give  birth.  And  through  the  year  that  passed  after 
Pepe  had  gained  his  captaincy,  and  at  the  same  time 
Pancha's  favor,  Pedro's  love  had  grown  yet  stronger 
and  deeper — grown  the  more,  perhaps,  because  it  was 
so  hopeless  and  so  deeply  hid  ;  but  Pancha,  whose  very 
life  was  wrapped  in  Pepe's  now,  had  almost  ceased  to 
remember  that  such  a  person  as  this  rueful  captain  of 
the  contraresguardo  lived. 

Still  another  life-thread  was  interwoven  -with  the 
life-threads  of  these  three.  Dearest  of  Pancha's  girl 
friends  was  Chona — for  so  was  shortened  and  softened 
her  stately  name,  Ascencion — daughter  of  a  lenador 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      69 

whose  jacal  was  near  by,  and  with  whom  her  father  had 
been  long  on  friendly  terms. 

A  grand  creature  was  this  Chona,  daughter  of  the 
lenador.  The  simple  folk  among  whom  she  lived  called 
her  "  La  Reina,"  and  her  majestic  beauty  made  her  look 
indeed  a  queen.  Yet  was  she  not  loved  by  those  among 
whom  she  lived.  Her  nature  was  as  imperious  as  her 
beauty  was  imperial,  and,  save  only  Pancha,  there  was 
none  who  called  her  friend.  Because  of  their  very  un- 
likeness,  these  two  were  drawn  together.  Pancha  had 
for  Chona  an  enthusiastic  devotion ;  and  Chona  gra 
ciously  accepted  the  homage  rendered  as  her  queenly 
right.  In  the  past  year,  though,  since  Pepe's  triumphal 
visit  to  Monterey,  a  change  had  come  over  Chona  that 
was  beyond  the  understanding  of  Pancha's  simple,  lov 
ing  heart.  She  no  longer  responded— even  in  the  fitful 
fashion  that  had  been  her  wont — to  Pancha's  lovingness. 
She  was  moody ;  at  times  she  was  even  harsh.  More 
than  once  Pancha,  chancing  to  turn  upon  her  suddenly, 
had  surprised  in  her  eyes  a  look  that  seemed  born  of 
hate  itself.  This  change  was  grievous  and  strange  to 
Pancha ;  but  it  troubled  her  less  than  it  would  have 
done  a  year  before.  For  now  her  whole  heart  was 
bright  with  gladness  in  her  love  of  Pepe,  and  with  the 
glad  hope  that  his  love  was  given  her  in  return. 

So,  for  Pancha  at  least,  the  time  passed  blithely  on. 
Her  mood  of  compassion  for  Pedro  was  forgotten,  and 
her  loss  of  Chona's  friendship — if  ever  she  had  possessed 
it — caused  her  no  great  sorrow  ;  and  all  because  her  love 
for  Pepe  filled  to  overflowing  her  loving  heart. 

This  was  the  way  that  matters  stood  the  next  Easter, 


70  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

when  Pepe  again  came  up  to  Monterey  to  take  part  in 
the  blessed  services  of  the  Church,  to  see  again  his  old 
father,  and  again  to  receive  graciously  the  congratula 
tions  of  his  friends. 

And  this  time  Pepe  told  his  love  to  Pancha  in  words. 
In  the  warm  twilight  of  the  spring  evening — being  fol 
lowed,  as  custom  in  Mexico  prescribes,  by  the  discreet 
tia  Antonia,  also  come  to  Monterey  for  the  Easter  fes 
tival — they  walked  slowly  among  the  bushes  and  trees 
lining  the  bank  of  the  ojo  de  agua,  passed  beneath  the 
arch  of  the  causeway,  and  stood  beside  the  broad,  clear 
pool  where  the  water  of  the  great  spring  pauses  a  little 
before  it  flows  outward  to  the  stream.  It  was  on  this 
very  spot,  say  the  legends  of  the  town,  that  the  good 
Franciscan  fathers,  three  hundred  years  ago,  set  up  the 
holy  cross  and  sang  their  song  of  thankfulness  and 
praise. 

And  here  it  was — while  the  discreet  tia  Antonia 
manifested  her  discretion  by  standing  where  she  could 
watch  closely,  yet  could  not  hear — that  to  Pancha  were 
whispered  the  sweetest  words  that  ever  she  had  heard, 
that  ever  she  was  to  hear.  In  her  memory  dwelt  for  a 
little  while  joyously  the  picture  of  the  dark  water  at 
her  feet  that,  a  little  beyond,  grew  green  with  aquatic 
plants ;  the  massive  stone  causeway  that  cast  a  shadow 
upon  them  in  the  waning  light  reflected  from  the  red 
sky  beyond  the  Mitras  crest ;  the  trees  beside  the  spring 
swaying  a  little  in  the  gentle  evening  wind ;  the  hush 
over  all  of  the  departing  day.  Yery  dear  to  Pancha 
was  the  memory  of  this  picture — until,  in  the  same 
setting,  came  another  picture,  ghastly,  terrible,  that 
made  the  place  more  horrible  to  her  than  the  crazing 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.  71 

horror  of  a  dream.  But  the  future  was  closed  to  her, 
mercifully,  and  in  her  heart,  that  Easter  evening,  was 
only  a  perfect  happiness  and  a  perfect  love. 

Later,  when  they  went  back  to  the  jacal  of  wattled 
cane,  there  was  great  rejoicing  among  the  older  folk  that 
Pope's  suit  had  sped  so  well.  It  was  not,  of  course,  a 
surprise  to  anybody,  this  suit  of  his.  In  point  of  fact, 
it  all  had  been  duly  settled  beforehand  between  the  two 
old  men — as  a  well-conducted  love  affair  in  Mexico 
properly  must  be — and  this  dramatic  climax  to  it  was  a 
mere  nominal  concession  to  Pope's  foreign  tastes,  ac 
quired  through  much  association  with  Americanos  upon 
the  frontier.  So,  the  result  being  satisfactory,  the  Parras 
brandy  was  brought  forth  again,  and  toasts  were  drunk 
to  Pepe's  and  Pancha's  long  happiness.  And  these  were 
followed  by  toasts  to  the  success — though  that  was  as 
sured  in  advance,  of  course — of  a  great  venture  in  which 
Pope  was  about  to  engage  ;  a  venture  that  infallibly  was 
to  make  him  a  rich  man. 

The  scheme  that  Pope  had  devised  was  worthy  of 
himself.  Its  basis  was  an  arrangement — made  who  shall 
say  how  ? — that  all  the  forces  of  the  contrarcsguardo 
and  rurales  should  be  sent  on  a  wild-goose  chase  into 
the  mountains,  and  sent  far  enough  to  make  sure  that  they 
should  stay  in  the  mountains  for  a  whole  night  and  a 
whole  day.  And,  the  coast  being  thus  cleared,  it  was 
the  purpose  of  this  daring  captain  of  contrdbandistas  to 
come  up  from  the  Zona  Libre  with  not  one,  but  with 
three  great  trains  of  burros  laden  with  contrabands,  and 
to  bring  these  trains,  in  sections  and  under  cover  of 
darkness,  actually  into  the  city  of  Monterey  !  Further, 
to  make  quite  sure  that  in  the  city  he  should  meet  with 


72  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

no  hindrance  to  the  execution  of  his  plans,  he  had  ar 
ranged  that  at  the  hour  his  trains  were  to  enter  from 
the  east,  a  jacal  should  be  set  on  fire  over  in  the  west 
ern  suburb.  Fires  occur  but  rarely  in  Monterey,  and 
when  one  does  occur  all  the  town  flocks  to  see  it :  it  is 
better  than  a,  fiesta.  It  was  a  stroke  of  genius  on  Pepe's 
part  to  think  of  this  diversion  ;  and  the  man  who  owned 
the  doomed  jacal — one  of  Pepe's  band  who  himself  had 
a  share  in  the  venture — was  eager  to  put  so  brilliant  a 
plan  into  execution.  Indeed,  to  insure  success  a  hun 
dred  jacales  might  have  been  profitably  consumed  ;  for 
the  contrabando  was  to  be  exceptionally  rich  in  quality 
as  well  as  great  in  quantity,  and  the  profit  upon  it  would 
be  something  -that  to  such  simple-minded  folk  as  Manuel 
and  Tobalito  and  Catalina  seemed  almost  fabulous. 

The  very  risk  of  the  venture,  as  Pepe  pointed  out,  con 
stituted  its  safety.  In  the  mountains  there  was  a  chance 
at  any  time  of  a  fight,  but  in  the  city  streets  there  was 
literally  nobody  to  fear — "  unless  the  serenos  should  turn 
contraresguardo !  "  he  suggested  ;  whereat  there  was 
much  cheerful  laughter,  that  of  the  honest  sereno  Ma 
nuel  being  loudest  of  all. 

The  lenador,  Tobalito's  trusted  friend,  hearing  the 
sounds  of  festivity  and  snuffing  the  Parras  brandy  from 
afar  off,  came  in  to  join  them ;  and  being  informed  of 
the  happy  issue  of  Pepe's  love  affair,  and  of  Pepe's 
noble  project,  he  gladly  joined  in  drinking  the -double 
toast  and  in  adding  his  good  wishes  to  theirs.  So  they 
made  merry  over  their  hopeful  prospects;  and  even 
when  the  twins,  Antonio  and  Antonia,  succeeded  in  an 
unwatched  moment  in  possessing  themselves  of  the 
precious  bottle  of  Parras  brandy,  and  thereafter,  to  their 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      73 

great  joy,  emptied  a  considerable  portion  of  it  over 
the  unfortunate  yellow  cat,  a  mere  desultory  spanking 
was  deemed  to  be  a  meet  atonement  for  their  sinful 
deed. 

So  Pepe  rode  lightly  out  from  Monterey,  and  behind 
him  rode  not  black  care,  but  brightest  joy,  and  after 
him  went  good  wishes  and  great  love.  When  he  came 
again  he  would  be  rich,  and — dearer  than  all  other 
riches — Pancha  would  be  his.  Truly,  a  young  fellow 
of  three-and-twenty,  who  had  carved  his  own  way  to  so 
brave  a  fortune,  might  well  rejoice  within  himself ;  and 
Pepe  did  rejoice  with  all  his  heart.  As  he  rode  down 
the  valley — the  valley  that  is  scarred  by  the  railroad 
now — his  thoughts  ran  back  pleasantly  over  the  past 
few  years  of  hard  work  in  his  profession ;  over  his 
many  successes  tarnished  by  not  a  single  serious  failure; 
and  still  more  pleasantly  his  thoughts  ran  forward  into 
the  future,  when  all  his  toil  was  to  receive,  over  and 
above  a  liberal  compensation,  a  most  sweet  reward. 
One  more  deal  in  the  game  that  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  play,  and  all  the  stakes  would  be  his.  Xo  wonder 
that  Pepe's  heart  was  glad  within  him ;  that  his  soul 
was  filled  with  joy. 

Yet  Pancha,  left  behind  in  Monterey  to  wait  while 
Pepe  worked,  was  sorrowful.  As  sometimes  happens 
to  us  when  we  are  confronted  by  the  certainty  of  great 
happiness,  she  was  possessed  by  a  gloomy  sadness  that 
came  of  dark  forebodings  in  her  mind.  The  very 
greatness  and  sureness  of  this  happiness  awed  her  into 
doubt.  She  knew  that  to  take  her  good  fortune  in  this 
faint-hearted  way  was  not  wise  in  itself,  and  was  not 
what  Pepe  would  approve  ;  and  that  she  might  please 


74  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Pepe  she  berated  herself  roundly  and  tried  to  laugh 
away  her  fears — though  they  scarcely  amounted  to  fears, 
being  but  shadowy  doubts  and  unshaped  thoughts  in 
which  always  was  a  tinge  of  nameless  dread.  But 
scolding  herself  and  laughing  at  herself  were  equally 
unavailing ;  therefore  she  betook  herself  to  that  refuge 
which  is  dear  to  women  the  world  over,  but  which  es 
pecially  is  dear  to  women  in  Roman  Catholic  lands — 
the  refuge  of  prayer. 

A  placid,  holy  place  is  the  church  of  San  Francisco 
in  Monterey.  It  stands  upon  a  quiet  street,  the  Calle 
de  San  Francisco,  where  little  travel  or  noise  of  traffic 
ever  comes,  and  about  it  always  is  an  atmosphere  of 
sacred  rest.  On  one  side  of  it  is  the  ruin  of  the  old,  old 
church  where,  near  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  colo 
nists  sent  northward  by  the  Conde  de  Monterey  first  met 
within  church  walls  to  offer  up  to  God  their  sacrifice  of 
praise  and  thanksgiving  for  the  grace  shown  to  them  in 
bringing  them  within  so  fair  a  land.  On  the  other  side  is 
the  old  convent,  where  long  the  good  Franciscans  dwelt, 
and  whence  they  went  forth  to  save  poor  heathen  souls. 
The  convent  is  deserted  now,  but  holy  memories  live  on 
in  it,  and  sanctify  its  silent,  sunny  cloister  and  its  still, 
shady  cells.  And  close  beside  the  convent  grows  a 
single  stately  palm,  larger  and  more  beautiful  than  any 
other  palm  in  all  the  country  round.  The  old  church 
is  shadowy  within,  and  a  faint  smell  of  incense  hangs 
always  in  the  dusky  air.  The  floor  is  laid  in  panels  of 
heavy  wood,  worn  smooth  by  the  knees  of  the  five 
generations  which  have  worshiped  there,  and  beneath 
each  panel  is  a  grave.  Reverently  do  the  Mexicans  be 
lieve  that  thrice  blessed  is  the  rest  in  death  of  him  who 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.  75 

sleeps  within  the  earth  made  consecrate  by  bearing  on 
its  breast  the  house  of  God. 

So  it  was  to  this  old  church,  the  church  of  her 
patron  saint,  whose  name  she  bore,  that  Pancha  came  to 
pray  that  Pepe  might  prosper  in  his  gallant  adventure, 
and  that  the  happiness  in  store  for  both  of  them  might 
not  be  wrecked  by  evil  chance.  To  pass  from  the  heat 
and  glare  of  the  April  sunshine  into  the  cool,  dark 
church  was  in  itself  a  refreshment  and  a  rest.  Save  an 
old  woman  or  two,  slowly  and  wearily  moving  from 
station  to  station  and  slowly  and  wearily  at  each  station 
repeating  her  form  of  prayer,  the  church  was  deserted  ; 
and  in  the  quiet  corner  near  the  chancel  rail  where 
Pancha  knelt,  far  away  from  the  mumbling  old  women, 
there  was  a  perfect  quiet,  a  holy  peace.  Her  prayer 
was  a  little  simple  prayer :  only  that  the  good  Saint 
Francis  would  keep  Pepe  safe  from  all  harm,  and  that 
the  contrabando  might  not  be  captured,  and  that  she 
and  Pepe  might  be  married  as  they  had  planned  to  be, 
and  might  live  on  in  happiness  together  to  a  good  old 
age.  When  she  had  made  her  prayer  she  knelt  on  for 
a  long  while,  dreamily  thinking  of  the  saint's  goodness 
and  of  his  mighty  power  to  guard  and  save.  And,  as 
she  knelt  there,  gradually  faith  and  hope  came  back 
again  into  her  heart,  and  the  conviction  grew  strong 
within  her  that  the  blessed  saint  had  heard  her  prayer 
and  had  sent  to  her  this  comforting  for  assurance  that 
it  should  be  granted  to  the  full.  So  at  last,  heartened 
and  quieted,  she  came  out  once  more  into  the  April  sun 
shine.  Yet  even  as  she  left  the  church  there  passed 
before  the  sun  a  cloud.  Pancha,  whose  mind  was  full 
of  happy  thoughts,  did  not  perceive  this  cloud. 


76  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

That  day  in  Monterey  one  other  heart  was  troubled, 
but  to  it  came  not  peace  nor  rest.  Much  to  her  sur 
prise,  Pancha — standing  near  the  causeway  over  which 
Pepe  gallantly  had  ridden  forth  upon  his  brave  advent 
ure,  her  heart  full  of  love  and  hope  and  fear — had  felt 
an  arm  about  her  neck,  and  turning  had  found  Chona 
by  her  side.  In  her  tender  mood  this  mark  of  affection 
from  the  friend  whom  she  had  deemed  lost  had  moved 
her  greatly,  and  with  little  urging  she  told  to  Chona  the 
sweet  happiness  that  at  last  certainly  was  hers ;  and 
wondered  to  see  the  look  of  hate — there  could  be  no 
mistaking  it  now — that  came  flashing  into  Chona's  eyes. 

"And  he  l.oves  a  pitiful  thing  like  you!  Loves 
you,  when  he  might —  Go  !  you  are  no  friend  of  mine ! " 

In  Chona's  voice  there  was  a  ring  of  bitter  contempt 
that  lost  itself,  with  the  abrupt  change,  in  yet  more  bitter 
rage.  With  an  angry  push  that  almost  threw  Pancha 
into  the  water,  she  turned,  sprang  up  the  bank,  and  dis 
appeared  among  the  trees.  So  was  Pancha  made  yet 
more  sorrowful,  and  yet  more  gladly  turned  to  the  holy 
church  for  rest  and  comfort  in  prayer. 

For  Chona  there  was  no  comfort.  Her  brain  was 
in  a  whirl,  and  in  her  heart  was  only  wretchedness. 
The  fate  had  come  to  her  that  for  months  past  she  had 
known  must  be  hers ;  yet  now  that  it  actually  had  over 
taken  her,  she  resented  it  as  though  it  were  a  sudden 
and  unexpected  blow.  Against  hope  she  had  hoped  to 
win  Pepe's  love — and  now  all  hope  was  dead,  and  she 
knew  that  her  chance  of  having  him  for  her  very  own 
was  lost  forever.  Still  worse  was  it  that  the  love  which 
she  longed  for  so  hungrily  should  go  to  another.  This 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  Pepe's  death,  she  felt, 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      77 

would  have  caused  her  a  pain  far  less  poignant — for  she 
herself  easily  could  have  died,  too.  But  Pepe  lost  to 
her  arms,  and  won  to  the  arms  of  such  a  poor,  spiritless 
creature  as  this  Pancha,  was  an  insult  that  made  greater 
the  injury  done  her  a  thousand-fold.  Her  fierce  love 
was  turned  in  a  moment  to  fiercer  hate ;  and  from  hate 
is  but  a  single  step  to  revenge. 

That  night,  when  the  lenador  came  home — and  in 
good  spirits,  for  he  had  sold  his  wood  well — he  told 
Chona  gleefully  of  the  grand  project  that  Pepe  had  on 
foot ;  of  the  clever  scheme  by  which  the  customs  people 
were  to  be  tricked  ;  of  the  fine  fortune  that  surely  was 
coming  to  the  captain  of  contrabandists  now  as  a  fit- 
tine:  culmination  of  his  gallant  career. 

o  o 

After  her  father,  with  a  prodigious  yawn,  had  ended 
his  narration  and  had  betaken  himself  to  sleep,  for  a 
long  while  Chona  sat  there  in  the  open  space  before  the 
jacal  alone  with  her  own  thoughts.  In  the  darkness 
and  stillness— for  only  the  low,  soft  rippling  of  the 
water  broke  in  upon  the  pcacefulness  of  night — the 
longing  for  revenge  that  possessed  her  slowly  took  form 
in  her  mind.  The  hours  passed  .swiftly  as  she  brooded 
upon  her  wrong  and  upon  the  means  that  she  had  chosen 
to  compass  vengeance.  "When  at  last  she  arose  and  went 
into  the  jacal,  the  morning  star  shone  bright  above  the 
twin  peaks  of  the  Silla,  and  the  whole  mountain  stood 
out  sharply,  a  huge  black  mass,  against  the  pale  light  of 
the  eastern  sky. 

Yet  the  morning  still  was  young  when  Chona — her 
father  meanwhile  having  started  with  the  l)urro  for  the 
mountains — went  down  to  the  barracks  of  the  contrares- 
yuardo  and  asked  of  the  sentinel  on  duty  permission  to 


YS  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

speak  with  the  capitan  Pedro.  The  sentinel  smiled  as 
he  dispatched  a  messenger  with  her  request,  and  thought 
what  a  lucky  fellow  the  capitan  Pedro  was,  to  be  sure. 

"  Come  to  me  quickly  in  the  Alameda,"  said  Chona, 
when  Pedro  had  joined  her.  "  I  can  tell  you  of  a  great 
plan  that  the  smugglers  have  on  foot — and  also  of  a 
matter  very  near  to  your  own  heart."  Without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  she  turned  sharply  and  walked  rapidly 
away. 

Perceiving  that  she  was  much  excited,  Pedro  did 
not  doubt  that  Chona  had  information  of  importance  to 
give  him ;  and  his  experience  had  taught  him  that  the 
treachery  of  a  jealous  woman  was  not  a  thing  that  the 
customs  preventive  service  could  afford  to  despise.  To 
the  personal  part  of  her  address  he  did  not  give  a  second 
thought.  Without  returning  to  the  barracks,  he  set  off 
at  once  for  the  Alameda.  The  sentinel,  lazily  watching 
the  two  retreating  figures,  smiled  again,  and  said  to 
himself :  "  Aha !  my  little  captain  is  a  lucky  man 
to-day ! " 

It  is  a  good  mile  from  the  barracks  to  the  Alameda. 
Chona  covered  the  distance  rapidly.  As  she  entered 
the  ragged  pleasure-ground,  she  turned  to  make  sure 
that  Pedro  was  following  her,  and  then  crossed  it 
quickly  and  disappeared  through  a  gap  in  a  hedge  be 
yond.  When  Pedro  passed  through  the  gap  he  found 
her  seated  on  the  ground  between  the  bushy  screen  and 
the  cane-field  that  it  inclosed.  They  were  remote  from 
all  houses,  from  all  curious  ears  :  for  the  Alameda,  beiruj 

7  /  O 

but  a  forlorn  place,  has  few  visitors. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  seat  beside  her,  and  said, 
hurriedly : 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.  79 

"  The  capitan  Pepe  will  bring  tliree  great  trains  of 
contrdbando  on  Friday  niglit  into  Monterey." 

"  Yes  ?     lie  is  your  lover  ?  " 

She  flashed  her  glittering  black  eyes  on  him  savagely. 
"  It  is  no  affair  of  yours  who  my  lover  may  be.  But  I 
will  tell  you  this  :  Pepe  is  the  lover  of  Tobalito's  Pan- 
cha — the  girl  whom  you  love." 

She  marked  with  satisfaction  how  he  winced  under 
her  words,  the  gleam  of  anger  that  came  into  his  eyes. 
But,  without  giving  him  time  to  speak,  she  wrent  on 
rapidly  to  tell  of  Pope's  plan,  and  with  a  clearness  and 
precision  that  left  no  room  for  doubting  that  she  told 
the  truth.  Her  excitement  increased  as  she  spoke.  Her 
black  eyes  grew  blacker  as  the  pupils  dilated  ;  her  breath 
came  short  as  her  trembling  bosom  rose  and  fell  irregu 
larly;  twice  or  thrice  she  pressed  her  hand  upon  her 
heart.  As  she  ended  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  held 
erect  her  superb  form.  Her  eyes  gleamed  with  the 
anger  of  hate,  her  hands  were  clinched,  her  guardedly 
low  voice  quivered  with  a  passionate  energy. 

"  I  have  betrayed  him  into  your  hands,  even  as  he 
has  betrayed  my  offered  love.  Take  him  !  Kill  him  ! 
He  has  only  my  hate.  And  remember,  it  is  lie  who 
has  won  from  you  Pancha's  love.  He  must  die  !  "  In 
an  instant  she  had  plunged  into  the  thicket  of  canes. 
For  a  few  moments  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  gave  forth 
a  hissing  sound  as  she  fleetly  pushed  her  way  between 
them  ;  the  sound  grew  fainter ;  presently  it  faded  out 
of  hearing,  and  all  was  still. 

Pedro  stood  for  a  while  motionless,  vacantly  staring 
at  the  place  in  the  cane-thicket,  still  marked  by  the  sway 
ing  leaves,  where  she  had  disappeared.  Then  slowly  he 


80  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

passed  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  and  slowly  walked 
across  the  Alameda.  When  he  came  to  the  circle  of 
stone  benches  he  sat  down  wearily.  He  did  not  in  the 
least  particular  doubt  the  truth  of  what  Chona  had  told 
him  :  and  because  he  knew  so  surely  that  it  all  was  true 
a  great  sorrow  weighed  upon  him ;  a  cruel  conflict  arose 
in  his  heart.  Chona  had  told  him  too  much.  Had  she 
told  him  only  of  Pepe's  plans,  her  purpose  would  have 
been  easily  gained  ;  for  in  a  strictly  professional  and 
matter-of-course  way  he  would  have  crushed  the  smug 
glers'  scheme  effectually,  and  probably  the  smugglers 
with  it.  Chona,  judging  his  nature  by  her  own,  had 
overshot  her  mark.  The  very  fact  that  Pepe  was  Pan- 
cha's  lover,  that  his  ruin  would  be  her  misery,  that  his 
death  might  also  be  her  death,  made  Pedro — for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  his  life — regard  his  duty  falter- 
ingly.  For  his  love  for  Pancha  was  so  loyal,  so  un 
selfish,  that  even  this  very  love  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice 
for  her  ;  ready,  for  her  happiness'  sake,  to  yield  her  to 
another's  arms.  The  question  that  now  confronted  him 
was  whether  or  not  he  could  sacrifice  for  Pancha  his 
honor. 

What  made  this  cruel  strait  in  which  Pedro  found 
himself  crueler  still  was  the  certainty  that  should  he 
save  his  honor,  no  one  at  all  (yet  it  was  only  Pancha  of 
whom  he  thought)  would  believe  that  in  capturing  Pepe 
he  had  been  prompted  by  any  higher  motive  than  re 
venge.  Should  Pepe  be  harmed,  Pancha  would  hate 
him ;  should  Pepe  be  killed — and  the  chances  favored 
this  issue,  for  Pepe  was  a  man  who  far  rather  would 
die  than  surrender — Pancha  would  turn  from  him  in 
horror,  as  a  loathsome  creature  too  base  even  to  die. 


PANCIIA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.  §1 

These  thoughts  went  whirling  through  Pedro's  mind, 
and  there  came  to  him  no  safe  issue  from  his  per 
plexity.  Toward  whichever  of  the  two  paths  before 
him  he  turned,  he  saw  standing  a  figure  with  a  drawn 
sword  :  Love  barred  the  way  of  Honor ;  Honor  barred 
the  way  of  Love. 

At  last,  the  conflict  still  continuing  in  his  breast,  he 
slowly  arose  from  his  seat  on  the  stone  bench,  and  slow 
ly  walked  back  into  the  town  ;  but  he  took  the  streets 
by  the  hospital  and  the  market-place,  thus  leaving  the 
arroyo  of  the  ojo  dc  agiia  far  out  of  his  path.  As  he 
entered  the  barracks  the  sentinel  looked  at  him  curi 
ously.  "Oho!  there  has  been  a  quarrel,"  he  thought. 
''  To  quarrel  with  '  La  Rcina,'  my  little  captain  must  be 
a  very  great  fool !  " 

The  noise  and  confusion,  the  loud  talking  and  coarse 
laughter  of  the  barracks  jarred  on  Pedro,  and  presently 
he  went  out  again.  Walking  without  purpose,  he  re 
traced  unconsciously  his  steps  toward  the  Alameda. 
Then,  finding  of  a  sudden  an  object,  he  walked  on  rap 
idly  until  the  shady  lanes  beyond  the  Alameda  were 
traversed  and  he  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  Campo  Santo. 
Reverently  he  entered  between  the  stone  pillars  of  the 
gateway  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  holy  dead. 

In  a  shady  corner  of  the  old  grave-yard  he  seated 
himself  upon  a  stone  that  had  fallen  from  the  wall,  and 
took  up  again  resolutely  the  problem  that  he  had  to 
solve.  There  in  the  perfect  peace  and  stillness,  with 
only  the  dead  about  him  for  witnesses,  the  great  battle 
of  his  life  was  fought  and  won.  His  own  faith  in  his 
manhood  came  back  to  him  and  gave  him  strength  ;  the 
doubt  and  trouble  were  cast  out  of  his  soul  ;  a  steadfast 


82  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

light  shone  clearly  upon  the  way  that  he  must  go.  And 
the  silent  counselors  around  him  confirmed  his  choice. 
By  the  very  utterness  of  their  silence,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  they  were  as  strong  voices  declaring  that  Love  is 
but  the  dying  daughter  of  Time,  while  Honor  is  the 
deathless  son  of  Eternity. 

When  he  stood  up,  the  fight  ended,  he  was  very  pale, 
and  sweat  stood  in  great  drops  upon  his  forehead  ;  but 
in  every  line  of  his  figure  was  firmness.  Erect  and 
steadily  —  with  something  of  the  feeling,  as  he  be 
thought  him,  that  had  upheld  him  once  when  leading 
his  men  upon  a  most  desperate  charge — he  marched  be 
tween  the  graves  and  out  again  through  the  gateway. 
His  resolute  step  was  in  keeping  with  his  resolute  pur 
pose.  Love  lowered  her  sword  and  fell  back,  conquered. 
The  path  of  Honor  was  clear. 

Being  cheered  by  her  prayer  and  by  the  good  saint's 
promise  that  it  should  be  granted,  Pancha  went  home 
blithely  and  with  a  heart  at  rest.  And  further  cheer 
came  to  her  from  her  mother,  the  excellent  Catalina. 
By  profession,  this  good  Catalina  was  a  lavandera. 
Hers  was  a  vicarious  -virtue,  for,  while  her  washing  was 
endless,  its  visible  results  rarely  had  any  perceptible 
connection  with  herself.  Indeed,  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
washer-women  of  Mexico  are  upheld  by  so  lofty  a  sense 
of  their  duty  to  their  employers  that  only  by  the  opera 
tion  of  some  extraordinary  law  of  chance  is  it  that  their 
own  garments  ever  get  washed  at  all. 

Down  by  the  edge  of  the  clear  stream,  in  company 
with  many  other  washer-women,  Catalina  practiced  her 
honorable  calling,  squatted  upon  the  ground,  and  hav- 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.  83 

ins;  in  front  of  her  a  broad,  flat  stone.     On  this  stone 

o  / 

she  soaped  and  rubbed  and  squeezed  each  separate  gar 
ment  until  her  fine  knowledge  of  her  art  told  her  that 
cleanliness  had  been  achieved,  and  that  for  the  perfect 
ing  of  her  work  was  needed  only  copious  rinsing  in  the 
running  stream.  Close  beside  her,  always,  was  a  little 
fire,  whereon  rested  a  little  boiler  ;  and  thence  smoke 
and  steam  curled  up  together  amid  the  branches  of 
the  overhanging  trees.  On  the  low  bushes  near  by 
were  spread  the  drying  clothes  ;  in  the  middle  distance 
stood  out  the  straw-thatched  hut ;  and  beyond,  for  back 
ground,  were  trees  and  bushes  and  huts  and  half -hidden 
stone  walls.  As  near  her  as  their  perverse  spirits  would 
permit  them  to  come  were  the  twins,  Antonio  and  An- 
tonia,  scantily  clad  or  not  clad  at  all,  usually  engaged  in 
some  small  evil,  or  else  basking  like  two  little  brown 
lizards  in  the  sun.  Some  day  an  artist  will  come  to 
Monterey  who  will  paint  Catalina  at  her  work  with  all 
her  picturesque  surroundings ;  and  if  he  paints  the 
picture  well  he  will  thereafter  awake  to  find  himself 
famous. 

Pancha,  joining  this  group,  and  perfecting  it  by 
standing  erect  beside  the  bubbling  boiler,  was  further 
cheered  by  Catalina's  confident  talk  concerning  the  cer 
tainty  of  Pcpe's  success.  Manuel  had  stopped  at  the 
jacal  on  his  way  homeward — coming  sleepily  back  from 
his  vigilant  duties  on  the  city  watch — to  leave  the  good 
news  that  a  detachment  of  the  contraresguardo  really 
had  been  sent  away  early  that  morning  toward  Garcia 
— (mite  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that  whence 
Pepe  would  come.  There  could  be  no  doubt  about 
this  assuring  fact,  for  one  of  his  fellow-semios,  being 


84  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

on  duty  near  the  barracks,  actually  had  seen  the  force 
depart.  So  it  was  clear  that  the  most  important  part 
of  the  promise  made  to  Pepe  by  his  employers  had  been 
fulfilled.  The  other  part,  the  massing  of  the  rurales  in 
the  wrong  place  at  the  critical  moment,  might  now 
confidently  be  counted  upon — and  this  made  sure  that 
Pepe  would  accomplish  safely  his  unostentatious  yet 
triumphal  entry  into  Monterey.  As  became  the  pro 
spective  mother-in-law  of  the  hero  of  this  noble  advent 
ure,  Catalina  greatly  rejoiced  ;  and  Pancha,  listening 
to  such  heartening  news,  was  still  more  firmly  convinced 
that  the  good  Saint  Francis  had  heard  her  prayer. 

But  even  while  these  comforting  thoughts  upheld 
the  hopes  of  the  watchers  in  Monterey,  Chona's  treach 
ery  was  doing  its  work.  In  the  early  morning  of  the 
third  day  after  Pepe's  departure  there  had  been  a  tough 
fight  south  of  Lampazos — and  the  end  of  it  was  the 
capture  by  the  contraresguardo  of  one  of  Pepe's  three 
trains.  Broken  by  a  sudden  charge,  the  guard  of  smug 
glers  was  overcome  ;  one  or  two  were  killed,  half  a 
dozen  were  captured,  and  the  rest  saved  themselves  by 
the  speed  of  their  horses  and  their  knowledge  of  the 
mountain  paths.  The  men  of  the  contraresguardo  were 
jubilant.  But  there  was  no  joy  in  the  heart  of  their 
captain.  He  had  but  the  cold  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  he  had  done  his  duty — and  bitter  he  had  found 
that  duty  to  do. 

"When  the  scattered  ~burros  had  been  driven  together, 
and  their  packs  made  fast  again,  the  convoy  set  off 
southward  ;  for  the  capture  had  been  made  in  the  State 
of  ISfuevo  Leon,  and  the  contrdbando  would  be  turned 


PANC1IA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.  85 

into  the  custom-house  at  Monterey.  Under  the  hot 
sun  the  train  moved  slowly  along  the  valley ;  so  slowly 
that  Pedro's  horse,  outwalking  the  short-stepping  bur 
ros,  carried  him  far  in  advance  of  his  command.  lie 
was  too  deeply  buried  in  his  own  thoughts  to  perceive 
his  loneliness,  and  it  was  only  when  he  reached  the  town 
of  Salinas  that  he  roused  himself  and  found  that  his 
convoy  was  almost  out  of  sight  down  the  dusty,  wind 
ing  road.  On  the  bluff  above  the  Salinas  Iliver  he 
tethered  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  sat  down  in  the  shade 
of  the  ferryman's  hut  to  wait  for  his  men  to  overtake 
him.  The  barquero  speedily  slunk  away;  but  Pedro, 
heavy  with  his  own  heavy  thoughts,  took  slight  notice 
of  his  movements,  save  that  he  was  glad  to  be  left 
alone. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  where  he  sat  the  road 
dipped  into  a  recess  behind  a  shoulder  of  the  mountain, 
and  for  a  little  space  was  lost  to  view.  lie  watched  the 
train  until  it  entered  this  recess,  and  then,  while  waiting 
for  it  to  reappear,  he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
His  heart  was  very  full  of  bitterness.  There  was  but 
little  comfort  for  him  in  the  fact  that  the  train  that  he 
had  captured  had  not  been  commanded  by  Pepe  in  per 
son  ;  for  he  knew  that  the  precautions  taken  made  the 
capture,  either  in  the  mountains  or  in  Monterey,  of  the 
other  two  trains  certain  ;  and  not  less  certain  was  the 
capture  or  the  killing  of  Pepe  himself.  Certainly  Pepe's 
fortune,  probably  his  life,  already  was  as  good  as  for 
feited  ;  and  with  this  forfeiture  Pancha's  hope  of  hap 
piness  was  gone  !  And  the  cruel  part  of  it  all  was  that 
Pancha  ever  must  believe  that  lie,  willfully,  revenue- 

*J    7  O 

fully,  because  she  had  kept  back  from  him  her  love, 


86  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

had  brought  upon  her  this  great  misery.  In  the  dark 
ness  that  beset  him  he  saw  no  way  of  hopeful  light.  He 
had  saved  his  honor,  but  he  had  wrecked  his  heart. 

A  rattle  of  rifle-shots  snapped  short  his  dismal  rev- 
ery.  As  he  sprang  to  his  feet  he  saw  a  squad  of  his 
own  people,  a  dozen  or  so,  galloping  up  the  road,  and  a 
moment  later  four  times  as  many  men  came  out  from 
behind  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  in  sharp  pursuit. 
The  pursued  were  bent  low  over  the  necks  of  their 
horses  ;  from  tho  crowd  of  pursuers  there  came  each 
instant  a  puff  of  smoke  followed  by  the  sharp  crack  of 
the  report ;  and  each  instant  a  horse  fell,  or  ran  wildly 
with  empty  saddle,  as  the  balls  went  home. 

Pedro  loosened  his  revolver  in  his  belt  and  sprang 
to  his  horse.  The  l)arquero  had  become  visible  again, 
and  was  standing  beside  him ;  on  his  face  was  a  ma 
licious  yet  not  wholly  unkindly  grin.  "  Quick  !  "  he 
said.  "  Get  into  the  boat.  You  yet  have  time."  As  an 
officer  of  the  contraresguardo  he  hated  Pedro  cordially ; 
but  he  had  no  especial  wish  to  see  him  shot  down,  now 
that  the  smugglers  had  recaptured  the  contrabanflo  and 
the  fight  was  won.  But  Pedro  already  was  mounted, 
and  his  horse  was  headed  not  toward  the  river,  but 
toward  his  men.  The  l)arquero  saw  his  purpose,  and 
seized  his  bridle  with  a  strong  hand. 

"  God  !  Sefior  Captain,  would  you  ride  straight  to 
your  death  ? " 

"  Let  loose,  or  I  shoot ! " 

Like  a  flash  Pedro's  revolver  was  drawn  and  cocked, 
and  within  an  inch  of  the  barquero's  head. 

"  You  are  a  fool,  a  madman !  Go  ! "  And  the  man 
staggered  aside  as  the  horse,  bounding  forward,  sharp 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      87 

stricken  with  the  spurs,  brushed  against  him,  and  nearly 
threw  him  to  the  ground. 

"•Es  mi  deber  !  "  ("  'Tis  my  duty  !  ")  came  ringing 
back  through  tlie  rush  of  air  as  Pedro  rode  furiously 
onward  ;  and  it  seemed  to  the  barquero — yet  this  was 
so  strange  a  thing  that  he  could  not  trust  his  ears — that 
there  was  gladness,  nay,  even  triumph,  in  Pedro's  tone. 

Whether  spoken  in  sorrow  or  in  hope,  certain  it  is 
that  these  were  the  last  words  which  the  capitan  Pedro 
spoke  on  earth. 

In  Monterey  there  was  no  knowledge  of  the  loss  and 
of  the  gaining  back  again  from  the  contraresguardo 
of  a  part  of  Pope's  treasure ;  no  knowledge  that  treach 
ery  had  come  in  to  defeat  Pepe's  well-laid  plans.  There 
fore,  when  at  last  the  momentous  day  arrived,  there  was 
with  Pepe's  friends  a  glad  expectancy  and  happy  hope. 
Under  all,  of  course,  was  somewhat  of  fear  that  even  in 
the  moment  of  its  success  failure  might  come  and  dash 
the  gallant  plan.  And  because  of  such  dismal  doubt, 
Tobalito's  face  at  times  was  bereft  of  its  accustomed 
cheeriness,  and  for  minutes  together  he  would  sit  silent : 
the  while  mechanically  polishing  the  brass  number  (that, 
as  a  cargador,  he  wore  upon  his  breast),  as  was  his  wont 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  his  mind  was  beset  by  troub 
lous  thoughts.  But  these  fears,  in  which,  also,  the  others 
shared,  had  no  endurance  ;  for  all  had  steady  faith  in 
the  all-powerfulness  of  Pepe's  lucky  star.  So,  slowly, 
the  day  wore  on,  and  at  last  was  lost  in  night. 

Excepting  the  twins,  Antonio  and  Antonia,  no  one 
that  night  slept  in  the  jacal.  Tobalito  sat  before  his 
door  and  smoked  incessantly  his  corn-husk  cigarritos. 


88  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Beside  him,  smoking  not  less  vigorously,  sat  Catalina. 
A  little  apart  from  these  was  Pancha,  holding  in  her 
arms  the  yellow  cat.  And  each  of  these  three  minds 
was  so  busy  with  its  own  thoughts  that  all  of  the  three 
tongues  were  still.  Only  the  yellow  cat,  having  but 
little  mind,  and  that  being  soothed  into  a  calm  content 
by  Pancha's  gentle  strokings  of  her  sleek  fur,  expressed 
her  perfect  happiness,  and  so  made  talk  for  the  whole 
party,  in  a  rumbling  purr. 

From  where  they  sat — although  they  could  not  hope 
to  see  even  the  reflected  light  of  the  burning  jacal  that 
was  to  clear  the  way  for  the  entry  of  the  contrabando — 
they  could  see,  a  hundred  yards  away,  the  stone  cause 
way  standing  out  in  the  light  of  the  young  moon  against 
the  darkness  beyond.  Pancha's  mind  was  full  of  sweet 
remembrance  of  the  \vords  which  Pepe  had  spoken  to 
her  over  beyond  the  causeway,  beside  the  pool,  but  five 
little  days  before,  and  of  the  glad  future  that  was  bound 
up  in  the  fulfillment  of  his  hopes.  Tobalito  and  Cata 
lina,  being  somewhat  beyond  the  age  of  romance,  were 
thinking  not  less  gladly  of  the  good  fortune  that  was  in 
store  for  them  through  the  rich  son-in-law  who  had 
come  to  lighten  the  burdens  of  their  old  age.  No  more 
would  the  cargador  bear  heavy  ladings  of  other  people's 
goods  ;  no  more  would  the  lavandera  wear  her  life  out 
in  washing  other  people's  clothes.  And  so  all  three 
waited  and  watched  eagerly :  straining  their  ears  for 
the  rattle  of  horses'  feet  upon  the  stone-paved  streets  ; 
straining  their  eyes  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
burro-tr&m  stealing  in  from  the  Zona  Libre  with  its 
rich  load.  For  close  beside  them,  across  the  causeway, 
the  train  that  Pepe  himself  headed  was  to  pass.  Now 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.      89 

and  again  they  caught  sight  of  a  little  point  of  flame 
passing  and  repassing  the  farther  end  of  the  cause 
way  ;  and  they  knew  that  it  was  the  lantern  of  the 
sereno,  and  that  Manuel  also  watched  and  waited  hope 
fully  to  see  his  son,  bearing  his  rich  sheaves  with  him, 
come  gallantly  home.  All  four  of  these  fond  hearts 
were  brimming  full  of  love  and  hope  and  joy. 

Slowly  the  young  moon  set.  Then,  suddenly,  Pancha 
was  aroused  by  a  strange  confusion  :  pistol-shots — 
screams — a  rush  of  horses'  feet — oaths — the  clash  of  steel 
— and  on  the  causeway,  dimly  seen  in  the  faint  light,  a 
confused  mass  of  men  and  horses  and  laden  'burros  were 
hurrying  away  before  an  orderly  mass  of  horsemen  rid 
ing  in  upon  them  from  the  east.  And,  before  the  full 
meaning  of  all  this  was  clear  to  Pancha's  mind,  came 
another  rush  of  horsemen  charging  down  along  the 
causeway  from  the  west.  Eight  under  Pancha's  eyes 
Pepe,  surrounded  by  his  foes,  was  fighting  for  his  life  ; 
and  Pancha  knew  that  the  fight  was  hopeless,  and  that 
Pepe's  life  was  lost !  Up  at  the  end  of  the  causeway 
she  saw  quivering  for  an  instant  the  light  of  the  sercno's 
lantern  ;  and  a  vast  sorrow  for  the  old  man  standing 
there,  full  of  years,  yet  henceforth  to  be  childless,  for 
the  moment  overcame  the  bitter  agony  in  her  own 
heart.  But  only  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  a  cry 
keen  and  woful  — that  echoed  along  the  arroijo,  and 
even  for  an  instant  made  the  men  pause  in  their  deadly 
fight  — with  every  drop  of  her  fierce  Indian  blood 
aroused  and  burning  in  her  veins,  she  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  but  for  Tobalito's  strong  restraining  grasp  she 
would  have  gone  to  Pepe's  aid  and  died  wildly  striking 


90  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

by  Pepe's  side — as  the  Aztec  women,  her  brave  ances 
tors,  fought  and  died  on  the  causeways  of  Anahuac 
when  the  cruel  Spaniards  first  came  into  the  land.  But 
Tobalito  held  her  fast — and  then  a  merciful  unconscious 
ness  came  to  give  her  breaking  heart  relief. 

When  life  came  back  to  Pancha,  she  was  alone  in 
thejacal,  save  that  in  one  corner  lay  the  twins,  Antonio 
and  Antonia,  still  asleep ;  and  beside  them,  having  fled 
thither  for  refuge  during  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the 
fight,  was  huddled  the  yellow  cat.  "Within  the  jacal  a 
little  candle  feebly  burned,  casting  a  faint  gleam  of  light 
through  the  open  doorway  out  upon  the  broad,  smooth 
leaves  of  the  banana-tree.  There  was  no  sound  to  break 
the  serene  stillness  of  the  night,  and,  for  a  little,  Pancha 
half  fancied,  and  tried  hard  to  make  herself  believe,  that 
she  was  but  awaking  from  a  woful  dream.  But  the 
searching  agony  that  wrenched  her  heart  was  too  bit 
terly  real  to  give  a  chance  for  this  fond  fancy  to  have 
play,  and  then,  slowly  but  strongly,  the  thought  came 
into  her  mind  that  she  must  go  to  Pepe ;  that,  if  living, 
she  must  bear  to  him  words  of  comfort  and  of  hope ; 
that,  if  dead,  she  must  cast  one  last  loving  look  upon 
his  face. 

So  she  passed  out  into  the  darkness — for  only  a  faint, 
hazy  light  beyond  the  Mitras  showed  where  the  young 
moon  had  sunk  away  behind  the  mountains — and  walked 
along  the  path  that  she  and  Pepe  had  trod  together  but 
five  days  before.  This  time  she  did  not  pass  beneath 
the  arch  of  the  causeway.  Where  the  path  forked  she 
turned  to  the  right  and  climbed  the  bank  of  the  arroyo, 
and  so  came  out  upon  the  causeway  itself.  In  the  dark- 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OP  MONTEREY.      91 

ness  she  tripped  and  nearly  fell,  and,  looking  closely, 
she  saw  at  her  feet  the  body  of  a  man.  Resolutely,  yet 
shudderingly,  she  stooped  still  closer  to  see  by  the  faint 
starlight  the  dead  face,  and  knew  it  for  the  face  of  one 
of  Pepe's  companions.  Beside  the  dead  contrabandists 
lay  another  dead  body,  clad  in  the  uniform  of  the  con- 
trarcsgiLardo  /  and  the  two  lay  facing  each  other  as  they 
had  fallen  in  the  fight.  Beyond  were  yet  others,  and  a 
dead  horse  or  two,  and  a  dead  lurro — from  which  the 
lading  of  precious  stuffs  had  been  hastily  removed — and 
carbines  and  swords  and  pistols  were  lying  where  they 
had  fallen  from  dead  hands ;  for,  in  the  joy  of  their 
victory  and  capture,  the  contraresguardo  had  wasted  no 
time  in  bearing  away  their  fallen  comrades  or  in  clear 
ing  off  the  field.  And  Pancha,  wofully  seeking  for 
Pepe,  passed  back  and  forth  among  the  dead. 

While  she  searched  thus,  she  saw  coming  slowly 
from  the  far  end  of  the  causeway  a  little  point  of  light ; 
and  presently  the  old  sereno,  wrapped  in  his  long  cloak, 
stood  beside  her.  In  a  broken  sentence  or  two  he  told 
her  that,  with  Tobalito  and  Catalina,  he  had  followed  the 
contraresguardo  to  the  barracks,  and  that  Pepe  was  not 
among  the  prisoners,  and  so  he  had  come  back  to  look 
for  him  here.  Pancha  made  him  no  answer  in  words, 
but  she  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it ;  and,  still  holding 
it,  they  searched  together  for  the  dead  one  who  had 
been  all  in  all  to  them  in  the  world.  Along  the  whole 
length  of  the  causeway  they  searched,  but  found 
him  not. 

"  Yet  he  is  here,"  said  Manuel.  "  My  boy  is  not  a 
prisoner,  and  if  not  a  prisoner  he  surely  was  struck 
down  in  the  fight." 


92  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

And  Pancha  knew  that  Manuel  spoke  truth :  Pepe 
could  not  be  safe  and  free  from  harm  while  all  his  men 
were  captured  or  slain. 

While  they  paused  midway  upon  the  causeway, 
standing  upon  the  arch  that  spans  the  stream,  a  low, 
faint  moan  sounded  through  the  still  night  air.  The 
sound  came  up  from  the  darkness  below — from  the 
space  beside  the  pool.  Bending  together  over  the  edge 
of  the  unguarded  footway,  Manuel  held  down  his  lan 
tern  so  that  its  light  fell  into  the  depth  beside  the  wall 
and  was  reflected  back  in  broken  rays  from  the  rippling 
water.  Then  he  moved  the  lantern  slowly,  until  the 
light  rested  upon  the  bank  and  shone  on  Pepe's  body 
stretched  upon  the  ground — on  Pepe's  face  upturned 
toward  them  piteously !  And  Pepe  knew  them.  Up 
through  the  darkness  came  faintly  the  words,  "  Pancha ! 
Padre  ! " 

AYlien,  going  very  quickly,  they  passed  to  the  end 
of  the  causeway,  and  so  down  the  bank  of  the  arroyo 
to  where  he  lay,  he  clasped  feebly  their  hands  as  they 
knelt  beside  him :  the  lantern  throwing  a  weird,  uncer 
tain  light  upon  the  three,  upon  the  dark  stone  wall, 
upon  the  dark  water  of  the  pool. 

"  It  was  a  trap,  my  father ;  we  were  betrayed,"  he 
said  brokenly.  "  But  we  made  a  brave  fight,  and  I  can 
die  without  shame." 

He  felt  the  quiver  that  passed  through  Pancha's 
body  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  I  must  die,  my  Pancha.  It  is  very  near.  All 
is  ended  that  we  planned — that  we  planned  on  this  very 
spot,  not  yet  a  little  week  ago.  It  is  hard,  my  little 
one — but — it — must — be."  Then  he  was  silent,  and 


PANCHA:  A  STORY  OF  MONTEREY.      93 

clinched  his  teeth  —  this  brave  Pepe  — that  his  face 
might  not  show  to  Pancha  his  mortal  agony. 

Manuel  held  Pope's  hand  and  wept :  the  silent,  for 
lorn  weeping  of  an  utterly  desolate  old  man.  Pancha 
could  not  weep.  She  clutched  Pope's  hand  in  both  of 
hers,  as  though  forcibly  she  would  hold  him  back  to 
life.  Pepe  understood  her  thought. 

"  It  may  not  be,  my  Pancha,  my  Panchita.  It  is 
very,  very  near  now.  (jive  me  one  little  kiss,  my 
heart" — it  was  almost  in  a  whisper  that  Pepe  spoke 
— u  one  little  kiss  to  tell  me  of  your  love  before 
I  go." 

And  PO,  for  the  first  and  the  last  time  in  her  life, 
Pancha  kissed  Pepe  upon  the  lips  :  a  kiss  in  which  was 
all  the  passionate  love  that  would  have  been  his  in  the 
long  years  to  come  ;  a  kiss  that  was  worth  dying  for,  if 
only  by  dying  it  could  be  gained  ;  a  kiss  that  for  a  mo 
ment  thrilled  Pepe  with  the  fullest,  gladdest  life  that 
he  had  ever  known — and  that,  being  ended,  left  him 
dead. 

Then  Pancha,  kneeling  where  the  holy  fathers,  far 
back  in  the  centuries,  had  sung  their  Te  Deum  laudct- 
mus ;  kneeling  where  but  five  days  before  her  life 
had  been  filled  with  a  love  so  perfect  as  to  be  beyond 
all  power  of  thankfulness  in  words  of  praise,  looked 
down  upon  her  dead  lover  and  felt  her  heart  break 
within  her  in  the  utterness  of  her  despair. 

Standing  amid  the  dead  upon  the  causeway  above,  a 
dim  shadow  against  the  starlit  sky,  was  another  figure 
— unpcrceived  by,  yet  completing,  the  group  below. 
The  arms  were  raised,  half  threateningly,  half  implor- 


94:  STOEIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ingly,  and  the  lithe,  vigorous  form  swayed  in  unison 
with  the  wild  throbbings  of  a  heart  in  which  sated  hate 
did  mortal  battle  with  outraged  love.  Chona  had  con 
quered  ;  but  even  in  the  first  flush  of  her  triumph  she 
knew  that  love  and  hope  and  happiness,  that  everything 
which  makes  life  worth  holding  to,  had  been  lost. 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN. 

So  full  arc  they  of  meaning  and  of  music  that,  at 
least  to  stranger  hearts  and  ears,  there  is  a  great  charm 
about  the  names  of  the  towns  which  the  good  Fathers 
long  ago  founded  in  this  old  country  of  lSTew  Spain. 
That  in  which  Don  Jose"  dwelt  was  called  La  Villa  de 
los  Santos  Xifios — The  Town  of  the  Holy  Children  : 
and  it  was  so  small,  and  so  pervaded  by  the  spirit  of 
peace  and  restf illness,  that  its  gracious  name  seemed  to 
have  cast  over  it  a  lasting  spell. 

It  was  a  very  little  town  :  only  a  cluster  of  five  or 
six  adobe  houses,  built  not  around  a  plaza,  as  the  usual 
custom  is,  but  bunched  together  anyhow,  beside  a  tiny 
church  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  lane.  The  lane  went 
crookedly  across  the  fields — following  closely  the  water- 
channels,  that  as  much  as  possible  the  irrigable  land 
might  be  spared — for  a  mile  or  more,  and  then  opened 
out  upon  the  highway  that  led,  far  across  the  waves  of 
sand-hills  clad  with  cedar-brush,  to  the  great  city  of 
Santa  Fe. 

Along  this  lane  was  the  one  \vay  of  communication 
between  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Children  and  the  out 
side  world  ;  and  they  who  traveled  it  were  few.  Save 
the  Padre  and  Don  Jose,  only  old  Mdximo,  the  Padre's 


96  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

sacristan  and  servant,  and  old  Pedro,  who  was  at  once 
Don  Jose's  factotum  and  humble  friend,  ever  had  jour 
neyed  to  the  capital ;  and,  having  visited  a  place  so  far 
away  and  so  magnificent — wherein  a  bishop  dwelt,  and 
also  a  general — Maximo  and  Pedro  were  accorded  by 
their  fellows  a  well-deserved  reverence  that  had  an  en 
larging  effect  upon  their  souls.  The  journeyings  of 
the  rest  of  the  townsfolk  were  confined  to  jaunts  to 
the  other  little  towns  lying  round  about  in  cozy  nooks 
among  the  mountains,  or  basking  in  the  plentiful  sun 
shine  of  the  broad  Rio  Grande  Yalley — Santa  Clara, 
San  Pedro,  San  Cdrlos,  San  Juan,  San  Yldefonso,  and 
so  on  through  the  saintly  calendar. 

Don  Jose  had  known  better  days ;  at  least  days 
which  would  seem  better,  when  judged  by  the  every-day 
standard  of  the  working  world.  Once  he  had  been  rich. 
Now  he  was  poor.  Yet  his  riches  had  not  brought  him 
happiness,  only  vexation  of  spirit  and  of  body ;  and 
now,  in  his  poverty,  he  had  found  contentment  and 
peace.  To  be  sure,  at  times  his  thoughts  would  go 
back  longingly  to  the  days  when  the  great  hacienda  in 
Chihuahua  was  his  ;  when  five  hundred  peones  were  his 
also  ;  when  in  the  midst  of  his  great  possessions  he 
reigned  supreme  —  as  reigned  the  patriarchs  of  old. 
And  he  would  contrast  somewhat  bitterly  this  kingdom 
of  his  youth  with  the  petty  principality  that  remained 
to  him  now  that  he  was  grown  old  ;  his  thousand  or  so 
acres  of  land,  of  which  less  than  a  score  of  acres  were 
cultivated ;  his  subjects  only  old  Paquito  and  old  Pe 
dro — who  managed  the  one  the  work  of  the  house,  and 
the  other  the  work  of  the  fields. 

But  M'hen  Don  Josh's  thoughts  went  thus  sorrow- 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.  97 

fully  astray,  Juanita  had  a  way  of  stepping  np  softly 
and  kissing  him  upon  a  particular  little  spot  upon  his 
cheek,  just  below  the  cheek-lxme,  where  his  gray  whis 
kers  grew  thinly— a  little  spot  that  she  herself  had  dis 
covered,  and  that  was  all  her  own.  And  then  the 
wrinkles  would  disappear  from  his  forehead,  the  look 
of  longing  would  fade  from  his  eyes,  and  he  would  say, 
cheerily:  "Si,  Juanita;  'sta  'ueno,  mi  chiquita" — Yes, 
Juanita ;  it's  all  right,  my  little  one — and  his  care,  Avith 
its  cause,  would  be  buried  once  more  in  the  past. 

Juanita,  who  shared  Don  Jose's  little  kingdom  with 
him,  and  thus  exorcised  sorrow  from  it,  was  his  daugh 
ter  :  and  a  fairer,  more  lovable  crown  princess  never 
reigned  ! 

Don  Jose  had  lived  in  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Chil 
dren  for  a  long  time.  Juanita — who  looked  upon  her 
self  as  being  quite  an  elderly  sort  of  a  person  because 
at  the  next  feast  of  San  Juan  she  would  be  eighteen 
years  old — said  that  he  had  lived  there  always.  As  far 
back  as  she  remembered  anything,  she  remembered  only 
the  surroundings  of  this  village  home.  Nor  could  she 
see  that  her  father  in  this  time  had  changed  in  any  way. 
As  a  little  child  she  remembered  him  as  she  still  knew 
him :  his  tall  form  bent  a  little  by  age,  his  kindly  face 
framed  in  a  mass  of  tumbled,  curly  hair  and  shaggy 
beard,  which  also,  being  grizzled  and  streaked  with 
gray,  showed  the  touch  of  Time.  Pedro,  seeing  more 
clearly  with  his  old  eyes  than  Juanita  saw  with  her 
young  ones,  perceived  that  Don  Jos6  in  truth  had 
grown  older.  There  was  more  of  gray  in  his  tumbled, 
curly  hair,  his  shaggy  beard  was  shaggier  and  grayer 
7 


98  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

too,  and  liis  tall  form  still  more  was  bowed — as  though 
the  burden  of  the  years  had  grown  heavier  to  bear. 

And  Pedro  could  see  a  much  greater  change  by 
going  back  yet  a  little  further — beyond  the  sad  time 
when  the  Senora's  life  ended  on  the  very  day  that 
Juanita's  life  began.  He  scarcely  could  believe  that 
the  Don  Jose,  bowed  and  gray,  whom  he  served  now, 
was  the  Don  Jose",  erect  and  still  young  in  his  vigorous 
middle  age,  whom  he  served  before  that  great  sorrow 
came.  But  he  kept  such  thoughts  as  these  to  himself. 
Thus  far  Juanita  had  known  no  sorrows ;  and  old  Pe 
dro  loved  her  too  well  to  cast  upon  the  bright  morn 
ing  of  her  life  the  shadow  of  a  dark  day  dead  and 
gone. 

Save  this  change  in  Don  Jose,  that  somewhat  early 
had  made  him  an  old  man,  and  the  lesser  changes 
wrought  by  the  flight  of  time  in  those  around  him, 
no  change  at  all  had  come  to  anything  within  the  Town 
of  the  Holy  Children  in  the  nearly  eighteen  years  of 
Juanita's  little  lifetime.  The  days  drifted  by  pleasantly. 
With  them  came  no  burden  of  care,  and  with  them  went 
no  burden  of  regret — for  other  days  as  fresh,  as  beau 
tiful,  as  full  of  quiet  happiness,  ever  were  ready  to  take 
the  place  of  those  which  were  gone. 

Juanita  found  great  joy  in  the  glad  air  and  friendly 
sunshine.  And,  in  their  due  season,  she  found  not  less 
pleasure  in  the  friendly  rains.  The  red  mountains  of 
New  Mexico  are  very  beautiful  in  the  rainy  time.  All 
the  green  things,  which  try  so  hard,  but  so  vainly, 
through  the  dry  season,  to  grow  upon  their  arid  flanks, 
rejoice  as  the  loving  rain  comes  down  to  comfort  them 
after  their  nine  months'  battle  with  the  sun ;  to  give 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.     99 

them  strength  to  live  again  through  the  nine  months  of 
sunshine  that  surely  will  come  when  the  rain  is  at  an 
end.  And  the  red  mountains  grow  redder,  even  to  pur 
ple,  as  their  crests  and  sides  are  bathed  by  the  many 
showers  sent  down  upon  them  by  the  kindly  clouds. 
~No  wonder  is  it  that  the  Spaniards  of  old,  reverently 
seeing  God  in  all  his  works,  gave  to  these  red  mount 
ains,  so  nobly  beautiful,  the  name  of  El  Sanyre  de 
Cristo—The  Blood  of  Christ. 

Much  of  the  love  that  was  in  Juniata's  heart  went 
forth  in  these  great  masses  of  everlasting  stone  which 
girded  in  her  home.  For  the  peaks  and  canons  and 
beetling  cliffs  she  had  special  love-names  of  her  own  ; 
for  they  were  her  close  and  dear  friends.  She  made 
stories  about  them  for  herself,  peopling  their  purple 
heights  with  saints  and  heroes  of  the  Church,  of  whom 
the  Padre  had  told  her  brave  stories — saints  and  heroes 
too  good  for  the  lower  levels  of  the  earth.  Chief  among 
these  strange  loves  of  hers  was  the  mountain  of  San 
Yldefonso,  that,  ten  miles  away  to  the  westward,  rose 
sharply  from  the  very  center  of  the  valley  and  outlined 
its  square,  battlemented  crest  in  pale  gray-blue  against 
the  deep  turquoise-blue  of  the  sky.  In  this  noble  castle, 
for  so  she  called  it — and  so,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  be,  so 
regular  and  so  symmetrical  was  its  shape— dwelt  her 
bravest  soldiers  and  her  best-loved  saints.  She  never 
tired  of  looking  at  this  mountain  down  the  vista  of  the 
fair  valley  ;  of  fancying  that  the  Ilio  Grande,  glittering 
in  the  sunlight  between  its  green  banks,  while  the  red 
mountains  of  the  blood  of  Christ  towered  above,  was 
the  golden  pathway  that  led  to  its  stately  gates ;  of  fan 
cying  that  down  this  pathway  rode  ever  noble  knights 


100  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

to  the  waiting  saints  who,  within  the  castle,  would  re 
ward  them  fitly  for  their  gallant  deeds. 

Juanita  had  time  and  to  spare  wherein  to  weave  her 
fancies.  In  gentle  old  New  Spain  there  is  none  of  the 
bustle  and  toil  and  vexation  of  spirit  by  which  the  dwell 
ers  in  less  favored  portions  of  the  world  are  wearied  in 
body  and  cast  down  in  heart ;  and  fancies  are  very  real 
in  this  land  where  life,  no  longer  a  burden,  seems  more 
than  half  a  pleasant  dream.  Nor  in  all  New  Spain  was 
there  a  place  where  fancies  wove  themselves  more  read 
ily  or  in  more  airy  forms  than  here  in  this  little  Town 
of  the  Holy  Children — where  trouble  never  came,  where 
all  was  placid  happiness  and  peace. 

Yet  at  last  there  did  come,  one  day,  into  La  Yilla  de 
los  Santos  Ninos  a  thrill  of  surprise.  The  Padre,  re 
turning  from  the  great  festival  of  the  Corpus,  in  Santa 
Fe,  brought  with  him  a  strange  rumor :  that  the  Ameri 
canos  were  coming  down  again  once  more  from  the 
north — not  as  they  had  come  long  years  before,  as  con 
quering  soldiers,  but  as  railroad-builders ;  though  what 
a  railroad  was,  not  a  single  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
Town  of  the  Holy  Children,  save  the  Padre  himself  and 
Don  Jose,  at  all  could  tell.  The  plaraaeferro-carril — a 
rut,  a  roadway,  of  iron — was  uncouth,  strange,  incom 
prehensible.  Doubtless,  being  an  invention  of  the 
Americanos,  ftuaforro-carrtt  was  also  an  invention  of 
the  devil.  As  everybody  knew,  between  the  devil  and 
the  Americanos  the  relations  were  of  the  closest. 

After  much  pondering  upon  the  matter,  in  confer 
ence  with  his  friend  Maximo,  this  popular  view  of  the 
matter  was  presented  by  Pedro  to  Don  Jose  for  con- 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.    101 

firmation.  ~Nor  did  the  explanation  that  Don  Jose  gave 
at  all  tend  to  shake  his  faith  in  the  satanic  genesis  of 
the  threatened  invasion.  On  the  contrary,  the  explana 
tion  only  bred  in  his  mind  a  hazy  concept  of  a  great 
howling  demon,  fed  on  fire  and  boiling  water,  that  tore 
across  the  land  at  a  speed  greater  than  that  of  a  run 
away  l)urro  j  greater  than  that  attainable  by  anything 
earthly — in  a  word,  of  a  more  prodigious  devil  than  his 
imagination  well  could  lay  hold  upon.  Therefore  he 
went  back  to  Maximo  in  fear  and  trembling,  crossing 
himself  vigorously,  and  fervently  praying  that  the  de 
vastating  horror  which  menaced  the  Town  of  the  Holy 
Children  might  be  stayed.  After  this,  no  one  doubted 
that  \\\Q  ferro-carril  of  the  Americanos  was  altogether 
devilish  and  abounding  in  danger  to  Christian  souls. 

Presently  the  vanguard  of  the  army  of  invasion  ar 
rived.  After  all,  it  was  not  a  very  formidable  army : 
only  a  half-dozen  engineers  for  cavalry ;  an  axe -man,  a 
cook,  and  a  couple  of  teamsters  for  infantry  ;  while  the 
nearest  approach  to  an  artillery  train  was  a  Studebaker 
wagon,  in  which  certain  venturesome  investigators  dis 
covered  a  few  Winchester  rifles,  stacked  handily  upon 
a  loading  of  general  stores.  To  be  sure,  besides  the 
Winchesters,  the  army  was  well  provided  with  formida 
ble  revolvers  ;  but  these  reposed  quietly  in  their  holsters, 
and  their  wearers,  so  far  from  manifesting  a  warlike  dis 
position,  were  friendly  to  a  degree.  Indeed,  the  party 
was  made  up  of  brisk,  merry  young  fellows,  bent  fully 
as  much  upon  having  a  good  time  as  upon  making  sur 
veys,  and  apparently  quite  determined  to  make  them 
selves  as  agreeable  to  the  Mexicans  as  possible.  Had 
they  not  been  Americanos,  their  laudable  endeavor  to 


102  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

establish  themselves  upon  a  friendly  footing  in  the  land 
certainly  would  have  been  successful ;  but  the  conditions 
of  the  case  were  against  them,  and  their  endeavor  failed. 
The  memory  of  the  siege  of  Taos,  of  the  battle  and  sack 
of  Santa  Cruz,  of  the  wreck  of  their  own  tiny  town,  of 
the  fall  of  Santa  Fe,  all  this  still  was  green  in  the  mem 
ory  of  the  dwellers  in  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Children 
— far  too  green  to  permit  them,  being  good  Mexicans, 
to  make  friends  of  these  Americanos,  who,  for  all  they 
knew  to  the  contrary,  were  the  very  sons  of  their  old- 
time  foes. 

For  a  time  Don  Jose  shared  this  popular  sentiment, 
and  had  little  to  do  with  the  railroad  men.  He  had  borne 
his  part  bravely  in  that  long-past,  troublous  time.  High 
up  on  his  forehead,  just  under  the  edge  of  his  tumbled 
curly  hair,  was  a  gallant  scar — the  mark  of  a  Texan 
saber,  got  as  he  stood  firmly  in  the  breach  of  the  church 
wall  at  Taos.  As  a  good  soldier,  he  bore  no  ill-will  to 
the  soldier  who  had  struck  him  down  ;  but  it  was  not 
in  human  nature  that  he  should  feel  kindly  toward  the 
nation  to  which  that  soldier  belonged  ;  toward  the  peo 
ple  that  had  conquered  his  people,  and  that  had  left  his 
land  bereft  and  desolate.  And  therefore  it  was  that 
while,  as  became  a  Mexican  gentleman,  he  was  courteous 
in  his  dealings  with  these  railroad-building  Americanos 
who  had  come  down  across  the  mountains  from  the 
north,  he  made  his  dealings  with  them  few,  and  treated 
them  as  strangers,  not  as  friends. 

Yet  presently,  to  the  horror  of  old  Pedro,  his  man 
ner  toward  the  invaders  changed.  It  was  Don  Jose's 
fortune — his  fate,  perhaps — as  he  rode  homeward  one 
day,  down  the  valley,  to  fall  in  with  a  couple  of  the 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         103 

American  engineers.  The  young  men,  full  of  enthu 
siasm  in  their  work,  and  thoroughly  convinced  that  it 
was  destined  to  regenerate  the  benighted  land  in  which 
they  wrere  carrying  it  on,  and  also  charmed  with  this 
delightful  old  fellow,  whose  manner  and  whose  speech 
were  so  pervaded  by  a  courtly  elegance,  told  in  uncer 
tain  Spanish,  but  with  an  earnest  energy,  of  the  many 
benefits  to  the  people  and  to  the  country  which  the  build 
ing  of  the  railroad  surely  would  bring.  They  believed 
heartily  what  they  said,  and  their  faith  was  infectious. 
At  first  Don  Jose  listened  only  for  politeness'  sake  to 
their  glowing  description  of  the  coming  season  of  re 
vival,  of  universal  comfort,  of  the  fortunate  few  who 
certainly  would  acquire  great  wealth.  But  as  they  rode 
on  and  on,  along  the  dusty  road  by  the  river-side,  he 
grew  more  and  more  interested  in  their  talk ;  and 
presently  his  dark  eyes  began  to  sparkle  with  an  eager 
light,  such  as  had  not  shone  in  them  for  years  ;  not 
since  the  time  in  his  early  manhood  when  he  began  the 
grand  speculations  which  were  to  make  him  the  richest 
proprieta/rio  in  all  Mexico — and  which  ended  in  leaving 
him  owner  of  but  one  little,  poor  scrap  of  land. 

Again  he  grew  inattentive  to  their  talk  ;  but  now 
not  because  it  did  not  interest  him,  but  because  the 
spirit  of  it  had  entered  into  the  depths  of  his  being  and 
was  working  great  commotion  there.  The  stray  phrases 
which  penetrated  to  his  mind— rich  farms,  successful 
vineyards,  sales  of  land,  new  towns,  great  fortunes, 
and  the  like — gave  strength  to  the  nights  of  his  own 
fervid  fancy,  and  filled  with  a  greater  eagerness  his 
eager  soul.  When  their  roads  separated— at  the  ford 
at  Chamita — he  scarcely  roused  himself  to  bid  the  en- 


104  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

gineers  farewell,  so  earnestly  was  his  mind  engaged 
with  the  bright  future  that  had  opened  out  before  him 
at  the  magic  spell  of  their  hopeful  words. 

Don  Jose  rode  slowly  through  the  ford,  slowly  along 
the  Santa  Fe  road  to  the  point  where  the  lane  leading 
to  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Children  branched  olf  from  it, 
and  slowly  down  this  lane  to  Ms  home.  Outside  the 
little  town  he  met  the  Padre,  setting  forth  upon  a  mission 
of  mercy  to  one  lying  sick  unto  death,  whose  soul  was 
to  be  purged  of  the  sins  of  the  world  that  it  was  about 
to  leave  ;  but  Don  Jose  rode  on,  his  head  bowed  upon 
his  breast,  and  made  no  answering  sign  of  reverence  to 
the  Padre's  salute.  At  the  gate  of  the  corral  he 
threw  the  end  of  the  lariat  to  old  Pedro  without  a 
word — though  Pedro  could  not  remember  a  time  when 
the  like  of  this  had  happened  before.  Very  close 
friends  were  old  Pedro  and  his  master — much  closer 
than  master  and  man  of  the  Saxon  race,  howsoever 
steadfast  their  good  feeling  toward  each  other,  ever 
could  hope  to  be.  Pedro,  too,  had  been  in  the  fight  at 
Taos ;  and  in  the  darkness  of  night — daring  death — he 
had  stolen  into  the  church,  and  thence  had  brought  Don 
Jose  from  among  the  dead,  and  had  nursed  him  back  to 
life.  Don  Jose  never  had  forgotten  this — until  to-day. 
But  to-day  Don  Josh's  nature  seemed  to  be  entirely 
changed.  He  even  chid  old  Paquita — who  never  be 
fore  had  heard  from  his  lips  an  unkind  word — because 
by  some  mischance  in  the  cooking  she  had  suffered  the 
frijoles  to  be  burned.  And,  strangest  of  all,  Juanita's 
kiss  for  the  first  time  failed  to  drive  the  care-wrinkles 
from  his  forehead  and  to  bring  a  gentle  light  into  his 
brown  eyes. — And  so  began  Don  Jose's  new  prosperity. 


THE  TOWN   OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         1Q5 

From  this  day  onward,  instead  of  shunning  the 
Americanos,  Don  Jose  paid  court  to  them.  He  spent 
much  time  with  them  in  their  camp  ;  he  rode  out  \vith 
them  while  they  ran  their  lines  and  staked  off  for  con 
struction  ;  he  even  made  them  welcome  guests  at  his 
own  home.  The  engineers  were  rather  flattered  by 
this  unexpected  tender  of  friendship ;  and  as  it  took  a 
practical  turn  they  were  well  pleased  with  it.  Presents 
of  fresh  corn,  of  toothsome  joints  of  kid,  of  melons  and 
fruit,  came  across  to  their  camp  on  old  Pedro's  unwill 
ing  shoulders,  and  were  very  welcome  there.  And 
after  the  rigors  of  camp  food,  the  meals  which  Don 
Jose  gave  them,  of  old  Paquita's  cooking,  were  veri 
table  feasts — though,  had  they  known  how  heartily 
Paquita  hoped  that  each  mouthful  would  choke  them, 
it  is  possible  that  these  feasts  would  have  lost  a  little  of 
their  relish. 

The  standing  topic  of  conversation  on  all  these  oc 
casions  was  the  grand  season  of  prosperity  that  would 
come  when  the  railroad  should  be  finished  and  the  en 
terprising  people  of  the  Korth  should  pour  down  into 
the  land.  Don  Jos6  never  tired  of  hearing  how  the 
railroads  of  the  Americanos  were  pushed  out  into  desert 
wastes — only  to  make  the  wastes  gardens  and  the  deserts 
populous.  If  a  railroad  thus  could  make  a  barren  coun 
try  rich,  how  much  richer  then,  he  argued,  must  it 
make  a  country  that  already  was  peopled  and  needed 
only  a  market  in  order  to  develop  abundantly  its  latent 
wealth.  And  the  bright  vision  of  his  little  possessions, 
fabulously  increased  in  value  and  sold  at  a  price  that 
would  enable  him  again  to  own  the  great  hacienda 
down  in  Chihuahua,  ever  was  before  his  eyes. 


106  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

He  tried,  one  day,  to  make  all  tins  plain  to  old 
Pedro.  But  for  once  Pedro's  opinions-were  very  much 
at  variance  with  those  of  his  master.  The  upshot  of 
their  talk  was  that  Pedro  said,  very  sturdily,  that  it  was 
better  to  be  poor  than  to  take  the  devil's  money.  And, 
in  answer  to  the  objection  that  the  devil  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  matter  in  hand,  he  expressed  his  emphatic 
belief  that  the  league  which  existed,  and  which  always 
had  existed,  between  the  devil  and  the  Americanos 
made  devil's  money  and  Americanos'  money  one  and 
the  same  thing.  Pedro's  opinions  were  not  many,  but 
such  as  he  had  were  positive  and  strong. 

About  this  time  Don  Jose  fell  in  with  a  new  ac 
quaintance  who  pleased  him  mightily.  This  was  a 
certain  Sefior  Richards — an  Americano,  of  course — 
who  had  drifted  down  into  New  Mexico  for  no  par 
ticular  reason,  he  said,  but  for  the  general  purpose  of 
seeing  what  chances  there  were  for  investments  in  the 
land  that  the  railroad  so  soon  was  to  make  rich  by  open 
ing  it  to  the  world.  His  anticipations  of  coming  bene 
fits  were  broader  and  more  sanguine,  even,  than  those 
entertained  by  the  engineers ;  and,  therefore,  much 
better  suited  to  Don  Jose's  needs.  Don  Jose  had 
found  the  engineers  rather  lacking  in  enthusiasm,  lat 
terly.  He  had  no  cause  for  complaining  of  lack  of 
enthusiasm  on  the  part  of  this  new  ally — whose  flights 
of  hopeful  fancy  more  than  matched  his  own.  Where 
the  Mexican  saw  a  promise  only  of  hundreds,  the  Amer 
ican  saw  thousands;  and  when  Don  Jose  ventured, 
doubtfully,  to  speak  of  thousands,  Sefior  Richards  firmly 
and  positively  spoke  of  millions.  Indeed,  there  was  no 
end  to  the  wealth  and  prosperity  that  he  foretold. 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN. 

Nor  were  his  forecasts  vague  or  illusive.  They 
were  precise  and  practical.  A  land  improvement  com 
pany  ;  a  company  for  the  sale  of  town  lots  ;  a  company 
that  would  dig  a  great  irrigating  canal,  and  so  bring 
under  ditch  thousands  of  acres  of  arid  land ;  a  com 
pany  that  would  plant  vineyards  and  manufacture 
wine — these  were  the  more  notable  of  the  plans  which 
were  to  make  Don  Jose's  level  lands  in  the  valley  and 
ragged  stretches  of  hill-side  turn  at  last  into  gold.  Don 
Jose's  brain  was  in  a  whirl  with  all  these  fine  projects. 
He  could  not  at  all  take  in  their  details,  and  much  of 
their  general  purpose  was  more  than  he  could  under 
stand  ;  but  their  grand  result  was  clear  enough  to  him, 
and  contemplation  of  it  made  him  glad  at  heart. 

Moreover,  he  already  held  in  hand  an  earnest  of  his 
riches.  The  sum  of  money  paid  him  by  the  railroad 
company  for  the  right  of  way  across  his  lands  seemed  to 
him  in  itself  enormous — for  in  this  blessed  region  all  the 
things  which  make  life  comfortable  were  to  be  had  in 
plenty  ;  and  money,  with  which  comes  sorrow,  scarcely 
was  known  at  all.  But  Don  Jose  did  not  by  any 
means  look  upon  his  money  as  the  seed  of  unhappiness  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  believed  that  with  its  possession 
happiness  had  come  to  him  such  as  he  had  not  known 
for  many  long  years.  In  truth,  he  looked  back  now 
with  something  like  contempt  upon  the  placid  life  that 
had  been  his  in  the  past.  To  be  sure,  in  this  past  time — - 
since  the  Seilora's  death— he  had  known  no  real  sorrows. 
lie  had  lived  in  quiet  contentment,  drawing  from  his 
little  herd  and  from  his  few  fields  all  that  he  needed  to 
supply  his  bodily  wants,  with  enough  of  overplus  to 
help  his  humble  neighbors  in  times  of  dearth— and 


108  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

being  thus  liberal  with  the  goods  which  God  had  given 
him,  and  being  also  gentle  and  kindly  in  his  dealings 
with  those  about  him,  he  had  many  friends.  But  now, 
in  contrast  with  the  life  of  magnificence  that  so  soon 
would  be  his,  this  simple  life  that  for  so  long  he  had 
been  contentedly  leading  seemed  worthless  and  mean. 

By  this  time  Senor  Richards  had  shifted  his  position 
from  that  of  a  constant  visitor  to  that  of  a  permanent  in 
mate  of  Don  Jose's  home.  The  two  had  so  much  to  talk 
about,  so  many  brilliant  schemes  to  plan  and  to  shape, 
that  they  could  not  afford  the  time  lost  in  riding  back 
ward  and  forward  between  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Chil 
dren  and  Espanola,  where  Senor  Richards  had  found 
quarters.  So,  quite  naturally,  the  American  was  in 
duced,  as  a  favor  to  his  Mexican  friend,  to  change  his 
abode.  Old  Pedro's  patience  was  tried  sorely  by  this 
new  move,  for  he  hated  the  Seiior  Richards  most  cor 
dially  ;  but  he  had  found  by  this  time  that  remonstrance 
with  his  master  was  useless,  and  so,  moodily,  he  held  his 
peace.  With  old  Paquita  the  case  was  different.  She 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  setting  a  guard  upon  her  lips 
at  any  time ;  and  at  a  time  like  this  least  of  all.  In 
a  fine  rage  she  presented  herself  to  Don  Jose,  and 
freed  her  mind  completely  of  the  burden  that  rested 
upon  it — of  anger  that  an  Americano  should  be  thus  re 
ceived  ;  of  conviction  that  he  would  repay  his  debt  of 
hospitality  by  some  hurtful,  evil  deed.  Paquita  did  not 
specify  what  particular  evil  deed  she  looked  for ;  but 
the  thought  of  Juanita,  young,  beautiful,  motherless, 
was  in  her  heart.  Yet  Don  Jose  was  not  moved — 
save  to  unwonted  anger — by  this  outbreak  of  rebellion 
on  Paquita's  part.  Nor  did  it  in  anywise  affect  the 


THE  TOWN  OP  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         109 

result.  Precisely  as  liad  been  arranged,  the  Sefior  Rich 
ards  came  with  his  few  belongings  to  the  house  in  the 
Town  of  the  Holy  Children  and  made  it  his  home. 

Juanita  was  the  only  member  of  the  household,  save 
Don  Jose  himself,  who  regarded  complacently  this  ad 
dition  to  the  household's  membership.  Of  late  her  life 
had  been  a  lonely  one.  Engrossed  by  his  many  plans 
for  getting  rich  again,  Don  Jose  had  spared  no  time  for 
the  pleasant,  idle  talk  with  Juanita— about  her  heroes 
and  saints  in  the  castle  of  San  Yldefonso,  about  her 
friends  the  mountains,  about  her  goats  and  sheep  and 
the  burro,  and  such  like  small  matters— in  which  they 
both  had  found  much  simple  happiness  in  the  time  that 
was  gone.  And  being  thus  cut  off  from  the  companion 
ship  that  had  become,  though  she  knew  it  not,  a  neces 
sary  part  of  her  life,  Juanita  was  more  than  ready  to 
welcome  to  her  home  this  stranger;  whose  presence 
promised  to  afford  her  at  least  the  pleasure  and  excite 
ment  which  come  with  change.  From  what  her  father 
had  told  her — lacking  anybody  else  to  tell  it  to,  for 
Pedro  steadily  refused  to  have  part  or  parcel  with 
the  new  order  of  things — she  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  wonderful  power  that  this  Americano  possessed  of 
making  their  poverty  turn  into  wealth.  To  be  sure  she 
never  had  known — until  Don  Jose  now  told  her — that 
she  was  poor ;  and  wealth  was  a  word  altogether  strange 
to  her.  But  it  was  only  natural  that  the  promise  of 
wealth  should  seem  very  good  to  her  when  she  found 
that  its  possession  meant  for  her  many  new  gowns  and 
real  jewels,  much  finer  than  the  sham  ones  worn  by  Our 
Lady  at  Santa  Cruz  on  the  day  of  her  festival,  and  visits 
to  the  capital  every  year  for  the  Corpus  and  the  other 


HO  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

great  feasts  of  the  Church.  Hundreds  of  times  she 
had  sat  upon  old  M&ximo's  knee  and  had  listened — with 
an  eager  longing  that  she  herself  might  see  it  all  with 
her  own  eyes — to  his  descriptions  of  the  Corpus  and  of 
the  many  splendors  of  Santa  Fe.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  she  looked  with  reverent  admiration  upon  this 
Americano,  who  was  to  work  the  change  in  their  for 
tunes  that  would  put  these  wondrous  and  much-hoped- 
for  delights  within  her  grasp.  Nor  did  her  admiration 
of  the  potent  Americano  suffer  any  decrease  because  he 
was  young  and  handsome — not  handsome  as  were  her 
own  countrymen,  but  with  a  fair  beauty  that  was  alto 
gether  strange  to  her,  and  the  more  attractive  because 
it  was  thus  strange.  Presently,  in  Juanita's  day-dreams, 
the  bravest  knights  in  her  castle  of  San  Yldefonso  also 
were  fair. 

While  Don  Jos6  and  his  friend  the  Senor  Richards 
talked  over  their  many  fine  projects  for  fortune-making, 
and  while  Juanita's  day-dreams  took  a  shape  and  color 
that  they  never  before  had  known,  the  work  of  building 
the  railway  went  on  with  a  rapidity  that,  to  the  easy 
going  Mexicans,  seemed  nothing  short  of  miraculous. 
Although  they  themselves  did  the  digging  and  the  cart 
ing  of  the  earth,  the  celerity  with  which  the  embank 
ments  grew,  and  with  which  the  cuts  through  the  hills 
were  completed,  was  so  prodigious — knowing,  as  they 
did,  how  a  whole  summer  scarcely  had  sufficed  them 
when  they  dug  the  great  acequia  that  watered  the  hill 
side  above  San  Pedro — that  they  were  more  than  ever 
sure  of  the  existence  of  the  league  between  the  Ameri 
canos  and  the  devil.  Nor  were  they  well  pleased  with 
their  work  in  some  other  respects.  The  fields  which 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN. 

they  loved,  having  tilled  them  all  their  lives  long,  and 
knowing  that  in  the  past  their  fathers  had  tilled  them 
for  centuries,  were  laid  waste  as  the  earthworks  grew  ; 
and  everywhere  their  cherished  water-courses  were  di 
vided.  Yet,  with  the  tendency  of  their  race  to  make 
life  a  holiday,  they  found  solace  for  what  they  deemed 
their  misfortunes  in  the  seemingly  vast  sums  of  money 
paid  them  by  the  railroad  company  for  their  labor  and 
for  their  wasted  fields.  The  possession  of  money  was 
new  to  them,  and  they  found  that  it  brought  them  many 
pleasant  things.  The  traders  who  came  down  with 
wagon-loads  of  beautiful  wares  and  stuff's  from  the 
North  did  a  brisk  business  ;  and  every  night  there  was 
a  dance,  and  every  Sunday  a,  fiesta,  in  one  or  another  of 
the  little  towns.  JSTor  did  these  simple  prodigals  stop 
in  their  merry-making  to  consider  that  as  their  money 
was  going  as  fast  as  it  came,  and  going  only  to  secure 
them  passing  enjoyment,  nothing  would  remain  in  the 
end  to  compensate  them  for  the  injury  done  to  their 
farms — that  would  remain  an  injury  always. 

Don  Jose  was  the  one  exception  to  this  improvident 
rule.  lie  held  what  had  been  paid  him  for  his  own 
land,  and,  under  the  guidance  of  the  Sefior  Richards, 
lie  added  to  his  little  fortune  largely.  The  two  made 
expeditions  together  down  the  valley,  in  advance  of  the 
railway  workings,  and  bargained  for  the  land  over 
which  the  railway  was  to  pass  ;  and  presently  sold  what 
they  had  bought  to  the  railway  company  at  a  goodly 
advance;  for  the  valley  folk  had  faith  in  Don  Jose — 
because  of  the  name  for  kindliness  and  goodness  that  he 
had  borne  among  them  for  so  long  a  time — and  did  not 
question  the  fairness  of  the  prices  which  he  offered 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

them ;  and  the  less,  because  these  prices  were  higher 
than  ever  had  been  paid  in  the  valley  for  land  before. 

Senor  Richards  stated  the  case  to  the  right-of-way 
agent  of  the  railroad  company  in  these  terse  terms : 

"  We  pay  'em  a  d d  sight  more  for  their  land  than 

it's  worth  to  them,  and  we  take  all  the  trouble  of  dick 
ering  for  it  and  squaring  the  titles  ;  and  then  we  sell  it 

for  a  d d  sight  less  than  it's  worth  to  you.  It's  what 

I  call  a  d d  fair  and  square  transaction  all  around. 

And,  d n  it  all,  I'm  not  here  for  my  health,  anyway." 

In  language  less  vigorous  and  more  in  harmony  with 
the  sedate  forms  of  Spanish  speech,  Senor  Richards 
made  this  same  presentment  of  the  case  to  Don  Jose"  ; 
and  urged,  besides,  that  if  the  great  plans  which  they  had 
in  mind  were  to  be  realized,  it  was  necessary  that  they 
thus  should  accumulate  a  working  capital.  The  busi 
ness  that  they  had  in  hand  was  a  legitimate  business,  he 
said,  one  in  which  any  honorable  gentleman  honorably 
might  engage. 

At  first  Don  Jose  certainly  did  not  take  kindly  to 
this  "legitimate  business,"  but  gradually  he  suffered 
himself  to  be  convinced  by  the  arguments  of  the  "  hon 
orable  gentleman  "  with  whom  he  was  associated.  And 
a  still  stronger  argument  tending  to  his  conviction 
was  his  growing  love  for  the  growing  mass  of  silver 
dollars  which  he  had  in  store.  He  had  made  a  hiding- 
place  for  his  treasure  in  the  clay  floor  of  his  sleeping- 
room,  and  at  night  he  would  dig  away  the  clay  that 
covered  it  and  would  sit  for  hours  contemplating  it  in 
a  dreamy  ecstasy,  as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  delights 
which  soon  now  were  to  be  his  :  how  he  would  be  the 
owner  again  of  the  great  hacienda  in  Chihuahua ;  how 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.    H3 

ho  would  live  again  the  free,  careless  life  of  his  youth ; 
how  once  more  he  would  receive  the  respect  and  honor 
that  is  the  due  of  him  who  owns  broad  lands.  And, 
thus  richly  fancying,  he  would  grow  pitiful  of  himself 
as  he  thought  of  the  many  years  that  he  had  lost,  here 
in  this  miserable  Town  of  the  Holy  Children,  in  a 
meaningless  and  i<moble  life. 

O  o 

And  yet,  though  he  tried  to  smother  it  in  the  depths 
of  his  heart,  the  thought  would  force  itself  upon  him, 
now  and  then,  that  his  wealth  was  being  bought  at  the 
cost  of  certain  precious  things  which  wealth,  in  turn, 
could  never  buy.  Already  his  land  transactions  had 
brought  him  the  ill-feeling  of  the  valley  folk — who,  in 
past  times,  had  known  him  only  by  his  kindly  deeds, 
and  who  had  felt  for  him  only  respect  and  love.  Those 
whose  land  he  had  bought  for  little  and  sold  for  much, 
as  they  gradually  came  to  understand  the  loss  that  they 
had  suffered,  were  wroth  with  him ;  and  as  they  told, 
up  and  down  the  valley,  of  the  wrong  that  he  had  done 
them,  a  sentiment  of  ill-will  against  Don  Jose  arose  that 
widened  and  gathered  strength  from  day  to  day.  In  the 
course  of  his  rides  abroad  he  no  longer  encountered 
smiling  faces  and  greetings  which  came  warmly  from 
the  heart ;  the  Padre,  too,  his  tried  and  trusted  friend 
through  many  years,  had  drawn  away  from  him  ;  and 
even  in  his  own  home  there  was  a  chilling  change.  But 
Don  Jose,  lilling  his  mind  with  thoughts  of  his  great 
store  of  dollars,  and  of  the  joys  which  these  dollars 
would  buy  for  him,  was  able  for  a  long  while  to  hide 
from  himself  the  dismal  truth  that,  in  going  out  into 
his  new  life  in  search  of  riches,  he  had  left  the  love  and 
friendship — precious  above  all  riches — of  his  old  life  be- 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

hind.   Yet  at  last  the  time  came  when  his  mind  no  longer 
could  keep  this  secret  from  his  heart. 

One  day,  the  Senor  Eichards  being  away  on  an  ex 
pedition  down  the  valley,  concerning  some  land  that 
they  purposed  buying,  Don  Jose  tried  to  make  clear  to 
old  Pedro  the  excellent  things  which  were  in  store  for 
them  all  when  his  plans  should  be  accomplished  ;  and 
so  sought  to  justify  his  acts  in  his  servant's  eyes.  But 
Pedro  listened  but  coldly,  and  refused  to  be  convinced. 
So  the  end  of  their  talk  was  that  Don  Jose  bade  him 
begone  for  a  stupid  old  fool.  And  Pedro,  shouldering 
his  clumsy  hoe,  went  down  sadly  and  wearily  to  his  labor 
in  the  fields,  wondering  the  while  if  Don  Jose  had 
thought  him  so  stupid  that  night,  long  ago,  when  he 
crept  in  between  the  camp-fires  of  the  Americanos  to 
the  church  at  Taos  and  saved  his  master's  life  at  the 
risk  of  his  own. 

And  much  this  same  thought  came  into  Don  Jose's 
own  mind  as,  his  anger  cooling,  he  watched  old  Pedro 
slowly  and  sorrowfully  shambling  away.  For  a  long 
time  he  sat  with  his  head  bowed  down,  wrhile  his  face 
grew  more  and  more  thoughtful  and  sad.  It  is  a  dreary 
thing  suddenly  to  realize  that  the  friendship  of  more 
than  half  a  lifetime  is  broken — though  the  friendship 
thus  riven  be  only  that  of  master  and  man,  and  the 
friend  lost  only  a  clumsy  old  fellow  with  no  ideas  in  his 
thick  head  save  those  of  duty  and  love.  And  Don  Jose, 
as  the  thought  came  full  upon  him  that  Pedro — who 
had  saved  his  life,  and  who  for  so  many  years  had  served 
him  with  a  loving  loyalty — now  no  longer  was  his  friend, 
was  very  sad  at  heart. 


THE  TOWN   OF  THE  HOLY   CHILDREN.         H5 

While  ho  sat  thus  mournfully  musing,  Paquita 
crossed  the  patio  /  and  he  noticed,  being  in  the  mood 
to  perceive  the  omissions,  that  she  did  not  turn,  as  for 
so  many  years  had  been  her  wont  when  she  came  near 
her  master,  to  interchange  with  him  the  friendly  smile 
that  was  sure  to  be  the  prelude  to  a  little  friendly  talk. 
Here,  then,  was  another  faithful  friend  estranged. 

He  heard  Juanita's  step  in  the  house  and  called  to 
her ;  but  when  she  came  out  to  him  her  face  was  grave, 
and,  stopping  a  little  space  from  where  he  sat,  she  asked 
what  he  would  have  her  do.  She  did  not  come  running 
to  him  with  a  laugh  and  kiss  him  upon  the  cheek ;  and 
he  knew  of  a  sudden  that  a  long,  long  while  had  passed 
since  she  had  given  him  this  sweet  caress. 

''  Dost  thou  not  love  me,  little  one  ? "  he  asked  ;  and 
his  heart  grew  colder  and  sadder  still  as,  instead  of  the 
loving  answer  that  she  would  have  given  a  year  before, 
she  said,  simply,  "  Si,  Senor,"  but  made  no  motion  to 
come  to  his  half-extended  arms.  And  then,  waiting  a 
moment  or  two  respectfully,  to  know  if  he  had  any 
commands  to  lay  upon  her,  and  iinding  that  he  remained 
silent,  Juanita  walked  quietly  away. 

As  he  looked  after  her,  longingly,  he  marked  with 
surprise  how  much  within  the  year  she  had  changed. 
She  no  longer  was  a  slim  slip  of  a  girl,  and  instead  of 
her  light,  quick  step  she  walked  heavily.  In  the  door 
way  she  paused  and  half  turned,  as  though  irresolute  to 
go  or  stay,  and  he  saw  that  her  face  \vas  flushed  with  a 
deep  red.  For  a  moment  her  eyes  met  his,  and  the  old- 
time  love-light  seemed  again  to  shine  in  them— but  it 
was  strangely  blended  with  aii  expression,  half  of  doubt, 
half  of  fear.  Yet,  before  he  had  time  fully  to  perceive 


116  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

all  this,  still  less  to  comprehend  it,  she  turned  again, 
hastily,  and  was  gone. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Don  Jose  came  to  know  clearly 
that  the  money  which  he  had  gained  had  cost  him  all 
the  love  that  was  his  in  the  world. 

For  a  while  he  again  sat  silent  and  sorrowful ;  and 
then  he  arose  and  walked,  with  something  of  eagerness, 
out  from  the  patio  and  across  the  road  into  the  little 
chapel.  Although  living  at  the  very  door  of  this  chapel, 
Don  Jose  but  rarely  entered  it.  In  common  with  the 
men  of  his  race  generally,  he  was  content  that  the 
services  of  the  Church  should  be  discharged  for  him  by 
his  womenkind.  But  now  he  turned  to  the  chapel  in 
earnest  need,  as  the  one  fit  place  wherein  his  sorrow  for 
the  past  might  be  lost  in  prayer,  and  wherein,  through 
the  answer  to  his  prayer,  might  come  hope  for  a  better 
future.  The  shadowy  coolness  of  the  little  church,  as 
he  entered  it  and  left  behind  him  the  glare  of  sunlight, 
was  comforting  to  him — soothing  him  as  he  would  have 
been  soothed  by  a  soft,  cool  hand  laid  upon  his  hot  fore 
head.  There  was  no  one  in  the  chapel — he  Avas  glad  of 
that — and  he  sank  down  upon  his  knees  before  the  little 
altar,  restf  ully,  as  a  wanderer  finding  welcome  in  a  home 
from  which  he  has  gone  far  astray.  As  he  prayed 
there,  less  in  words  than  in  thoughts,  peace  seemed  to 
come  back  to  him,  and  love  entered  once  more  into  his 
heart.  The  memory  of  the  many  placid,  happy  years 
which  he  had  passed  in  the  Town  of  the  Holy  Children 
stole  softly  into  his  soul,  and  brought  with  it  a  soothing 
sense  of  rest ;  and  at  the  same  time  came  the  firm  de 
termination  that — by  the  sweet  Children's  aid,  and  by 
the  Blessed  Virgin's  grace — this  life  again  should  be 


THE  TOWX  OP  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN. 

liis.  And  so,  at  last,  lie  arose  from  before  the  altar  and 
went  forth  once  more  into  the  sunlight ;  and  in  his 
heart  was  happiness. 

Don  Jose,  a  sinner,  forgot  that  sin — though  through 
God's  great  goodness  and  mercy  it  may  be  forgiven — 
is  a  deadly  stain  that  even  true  repentance  can  not  efface  ; 
forgot  that,  while  evil  may  be  stopped  at  its  source,  the 
consequences  of  evil  done  must  go  on  and  on  until 
through  bitter  sorrow  is  accomplished  the  expiation  that 
Fate  inexorably  demands. 

The  Seiior  Richards,  having,  with  some  little  trouble, 
satisfactorily  arranged  a  very  promising  deal  down  the 
valley,  came  back  late  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Town  of 
the  Holy  Children,  to  report  the  transaction  to  his  part 
ner,  and  to  lay  out  plans  for  continuing  their  highly 
profitable  campaign.  For  private  reasons  of  his  own, 
Seiior  Richards  did  not  intend  to  carry  on  this  cam 
paign  much  longer,  and  he  already  had  partly  mapped 
out  a  bold  stroke  with  which  he  intended  to  bring  it  to 
an  end.  But  that  Don  Jose  should  desire  to  end  it  was 
a  possibility  that  had  not  occurred  to  him.  Therefore, 
he  was  not  a  little  surprised  when — in  the  after-glow  of 
sunset,  as  the  two  sat  together  in  the  patio  smoking 
their  cigarritos,  while  the  cool  wind  poured  down  from 
the  mountains  arid  brought  with  it  a  delicious  refresh 
ment  after  the  long  heat  of  the  day — Don  Jose  told  him 
of  his  changed  intentions  in  regard  to  the  execution  of 
their  plans.  Don  Jose  spoke  nervously,  almost  timidly, 
for  his  instinct  told  him  that  the  Senor  Richards  could 
not  in  the  smallest  degree  comprehend  the  motives 
which  actuated  him  in  renouncing  the  fair  certainty  of 


118  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW   SPAIN. 

wealth  ;  and  he  felt  that  this  friend,  who  had  helped 
him  so  well,  so  disinterestedly,  had  a  just  right  for  com 
plaint  in  a  sudden  stoppage  of  their  joint  work  while  its 
profits  yet  remained  all  on  one  side — for,  though  the 
money  already  in  hand  might  be  divided,  the  great 
schemes  for  fortune-making,  of  which  this  money  was 
the  substantial  basis,  still  remained  in  the  air. 

For  a  little  space,  while  he  unfolded  his  intentions 
in  the  slow  speech  that  was  habitual  with  him,  the  angry 
light  that  he  expected  to  see  in  the  eyes  of  the  Senor 
Richards  indeed  was  there.  But  as  he  talked  on  this 
light  died  out,  and  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  his 

O  ? 

discourse  the  Americano's  face  wore  a  smile — not  a 
pleasant  smile,  it  is  true  ;  nor  one  easy  for  a  simple- 
minded  man  like  Don  Jose  to  understand.  However, 
it  seemed  to  be  well  meant,  for  the  Sefior  Richards 
raised  no  objections  to  the  dissolution  of  their  partner 
ship.  It  made  no  difference  to  him,  he  said,  whether 
or  not  their  plans  were  executed.  Other  land-owners 
on  the  line  of  the  railroad,  no  doubt,  would  accept 
gladly  the  chance  that  Don  Jose  chose  to  throw  away ; 
and,  if  they  would  not,  he  did  not  greatly  care.  On 
many  accounts,  he  added,  he  was  disposed  to  return  to 
the  States ;  this  was  but  a  slow  country  for  an  Ameri 
can  to  make  money  in  ;  after  all,  these  plans  which  they 
had  formed  for  fortune-making  were  quite  as  likely  to 
fail  as  they  were  to  succeed. 

Don  Jose,  thinking  only  of  his  desire  to  retreat  from 
his  position,  did  not  notice  the  wide  difference  between 
his  friend's  views  now  and  those  which  he  had  expressed 
that  very  morning — when  he  had  repeated  with  em 
phasis  liis  frequently-urged  belief  that  the  very  plans 


THE  TOWN  OP  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         H9 

which  lie  now  dismissed  so  airily  would  assure  to  them 
both  the  speedy  acquisition  of  fabulous  wealth.  Had 
Don  Jose  perceived  this  change  of  front,  the  thought 
might  have  occurred  to  him,  ignorant  though  he  was 
of  the  darker  side  of  human  nature,  that  the  honorable 
gentleman  his  partner,  for  some  reason  that  might  not 
bear  examination,  had  been  aiding  him  and  urging  him 
to  build  a  house  of  cards. 

The  proposition  that  the  money  should  be  divided 
was  accepted  by  the  Senor  Richards  briskly.  It  had 
better  be  done  at  once,  that  very  night,  lie  said ;  since 
Don  Jose  had  decided  to  abandon  their  joint  under 
taking,  he  would  leave  immediately — in  fact,  by  the 
train  that  passed  Chamita  a  little  after  midnight — for 
the  States.  In  any  one  else,  Don  Jose  would  have 
deemed  strange  such  exceedingly  prompt  action ;  but 
in  the  case  of  this  Americano  he  had  come  to  know  that 
intention  and  action  usually  went  hand  in  hand. 

Juanita  had  been  sitting  near  them  while  they  talked, 
but  neither  of  them  had  spoken  to  her — her  father 
had  not  even  thought  of  her.  Women  are  looked  upon 
as  useful  creatures  in  this  part  of  the  world,  but  they 
have  no  part  in  the  serious  affairs  of  men.  Kow  she 
arose  from  the  bench  by  the  doorway,  and,  with  a  sob 
that  startled  them  both,  went  into  the  house  hurriedly. 

"  Ah  !  the  poor  little  one  !  She  mourns  the  loss  of 
the  Corpus,  and  the  beautiful  gowns,  and  all  the  fine 
things  which  I  have  promised  her,"  said  Don  Jose. 
The  Senor  Richards  made  no  answer  in  words,  but 
again  there  appeared  upon  his  face  that  curious,  not 
pleasant,  smile. 

The  two  men  went  into  the  house  to  Don  Jose's 


120  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

sleeping-room,  and  Don  Jose — discovering  now  for  the 
first  time  its  hiding-place  to  his  friend — dug  up  from 
the  clay  floor  his  hoard  of  silver  dollars  and  made  a  fair 
division  of  them.  He  was  strongly  tempted — little 
liking  the  way  that  he  had  come  by  them— to  give 
them  all  to  the  American  ;  but  the  thought  of  Juanita 
restrained  him.  With  such  a  sum  as  still  was  left  to 
him  he  could  give  her  a  marriage  portion  that  would 
assure  her  a  worthy  husband ;  he  felt  that  he  was  old 
now,  and  his  heart's  desire  was  to  see  Juanita,  the  one 
true  treasure  of  his  old  age,  well  settled  in  life  before 
he  died.  Therefore  he  checked  his  impulse,  and,  when 
the  Senor  Richards  had  verified  his  count,  he  returned 
his  own  half  of  the  money  to  its  hiding-place  in  the 
clay  floor.  Senor  Richards  stood  by  and  watched  him — 
the  unpleasant  smile  again  upon  his  face,  though  this 
time  it  was  unseen  by  Don  Jose — while  he  filled  in  the 
hole  and  carefully  leveled  over  it  the  clay. 

When  the  two  men  separated — for  the  few  hours  of 
sleep  which  could  be  caught  before  the  Senor  Richards 
would  ride  away  to  take  the  north-bound  train — Don 
Jose  returned  across  the  dark  patio.  As  he  passed  the 
door  of  Juanita's  sleeping-room  he  heard,  through  the 
darkness,  the  sound  of  bitter  sobs.  Pushing  aside  the 
partly  open  door,  he  went  to  where  his  daughter  lay 
sorrowing.  Very  tenderly,  for  his  own  heart  felt  a 
nameless  sorrow  that  entered  irto  and  was  a  part  of  his 
great  love  for  his  child,  he  asked : 

"  Doth  thy  little  heart  suffer,  my  little  one,  now 
that  all  I  foolishly  promised  thee  is  lost  ?  " 

But  Juanita  answered  only  with  a  moan,  and  in  the 
darkness  she  clasped  eagerly  her  fathei's  hand. 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE   HOLY  CHILDREN.         121 

For  a  long  while,  stroking  her  liands  soothingly,  he 
sat  beside  her.  But  she  would  not  be  comforted,  and 
her  quivering  sobs  wrung  cruelly  his  loving  heart.  At 
last  she  said,  with  such  hollow  tones  of  grief  in  her 
voice  as  made  it  seem  the  voice  of  a  tormented  soul 
speaking  from  amid  the  agonies  of  hell :  "  Xot  now, 
my  father,  not  now.  I  must  tell  thee  my  sorrow — but 
wait  yet  a  little  time.  Leave  me  for  this  one  night 
longer  with  thy  dear  love,  that  I  had  thought  already 
was  lost  to  me  ;  leave  me,  and  let  me  make  to  the 
Mother  of  Sorrows  my  prayer." 

And  Don  Jose,  half  smiling  that  so  small  a  grief 
thus  should  stir  to  its  very  depths  Juanita's  heart, 
yet  sorrowing  because  his  own  folly  had  brought  this 
grief  upon  her,  kissed  gently  and  lovingly  her  little 
tear-wet  cheek,  and  left  her  alone  in  the  darkness  to 
pray. 

Sleep  came  to  Don  Jose  slowly.  This  had  been  a 
day  of  great  excitement  to  him,  and  his  mind  was 
charged  with  many  and  conflicting  thoughts.  lie  had 
taken  a  decisive  step  that  shaped  positively  his  future 
life.  As  he  believed,  he  had  relinquished  wealth  that 
was  within  his  grasp  ;  as  he  certainly  knew,  he  had 
accepted  comparative  poverty  as  his  portion  for  the  re 
mainder  of  his  days.  Both  his  conscience  and  his 
heart  approved  what  he  had  done;  yet  it  was  not  in 
human  nature,  that,  after  making  such  a  choice,  he 
should  not  feel  some  twinges  of  regret.  And  a  real 
poignancy  was  given  to  his  sorrow  by  the  grief  that  his 
choice  had  caused  his  child,  lie  felt  sure,  of  course, 
that  this  little  trouble  of  hers  would  be  cured  by  time. 


122  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  that  the  life  which  he  had  chosen  for  her  was  far 
more  likely  to  bring  her  happiness  than  the  life  which 
he  had  rejected  ;  jet  it  troubled  him  to  think  that  any 
act  of  his — no  matter  how  temporary  her  pain,  nor  how 
greatly  for  her  good  the  eventual  result — should  make 
in  her  tender  soul  so  harsh  a  wound.  And  underlying 
all  these  troubling  thoughts,  now  that  his  mind  was 
awakened  to  the  change  that  a  year  had  wrought,  was 
the  haunting  fear  that  with  the  coming  of  the  Ameri 
canos  the  restf ulness  and  peace  of  the  Town  of  the  Holy 
Children  had  departed,  never  to  return.  When  at  last 
he  slept,  his  sleep  was  dreamful  and  unsound. 

Don  Jose  was  awakened  less  by  a  noise  than  by  a 
presence — by  an  instinctive  feeling  that  he  was  not 
alone,  and  that  deadly  peril  was  near.  The  room,  with 
out  windows,  was  densely  dark  ;  only  a  faint  suggestion 
of  dim,  reflected  light  came  in  through  the  open  door 
from  the  starlit  patio.  Through  this  slightly  luminous 
space,  as  he  gazed  intently,  a  figure  seemed  to  move  ; 
and  a  moment  later  he  heard  a  very  slight  soft  sound, 
as  though  a  hand  were  moving  over  the  surface  of  the 
clay  floor.  The  sound  came  from  that  side  of  the  room 
where  his  treasure  lay  buried,  and  as  his  light  sleep 
wholly  left  him,  he  knew  that  he  was  being  robbed. 
Some  one  of  the  many  loose  characters  with  which  the 
valley  had  been  infested  since  the  coming  of  the  rail 
way  must  have  guessed  that  he  had  money  by  him, 
and  so  had  planned  this  daring  theft.  In  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment,  and  in  the  confusion  of  a  mind 
aroused  from  sleep,  it  did  not  occur  to  Don  Jose  that  a 
robber  of  this  sort  would  not  have  the  precise  knowl 
edge  of  the  interior  of  his  house,  nor  of  the  exact  spot 


THE  TOWN  OP  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         123 

where  the  money  lay  hidden,  that  this  robber  manifest 
ly  was  in  possession  of.  Indeed,  he  did  not  pause  to 
think  about  the  matter  at  all.  Over  his  head,  hanging 
upon  the  wall,  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand,  was  the 
sword  that  he  had  carried  so  gallantly  through  the  long- 
past  war — the  sword  that  had  fallen  beside  him,  when 
lie  was  struck  down  in  the  church  at  Taos,  and  that 
Pedro  had  brought  away,  in  that  dismal  night-time,  to 
keep  as  a  precious  relic  should  his  brave  master  die. 
It  was  a  good  sword,  and  Don  Jose's  blood  coursed 
hotly  through  his  veins,  as  he  felt,  although  he  was  an 
old  man  now,  that  he  still  could  use  it  well.  With  a 
cry  he  seized  it,  sprang  to  his  feet,  crossed  the  room, 
and  made  a  fierce  lunge  in  the  darkness.  But  his 
thrust  went  into  the  empty  air — and  before  he  could 
recover  himself  a  hand  had  clutched  his  throat. 

"  Hold  your  noise,  you  d d  old  fool !  I  don't 

want  to  murder  you.  I  only  want  the  money.  Keep 
quiet,  and  you'll  be  all  right.  Make  another  sound,  and 
I'll  choke  you  !  " 

Don  Jose  did  not  understand  this  speech,  for  the 
words  were  English  ;  but  he  recognized  the  voice, 
strained  by  passion  though  it  was,  as  the  voice  of  the 
Senor  Richards.  But  had  he  fully  understood  what 
was  said  to  him,  and  no  matter  who  the  robber  had 
been,  he  would  not  have  yielded.  His  old  soldierly 
spirit,  long  at  rest,  was  aroused  again ;  and  it  was 
fiercely  strengthened  by  the  sense  of  the  cruel  wrong 
that  was  being  done  him  by  this  Americano,  whom  he 
had  sheltered  in  his  own  home,  and  whom  he  had  made 
his  friend.  He  cried  out  as  loudly  as  he  could  for  the 
grip  upon  his  throat,  and  he  gave  one  thrust,  at  least, 


124  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

with  his  sword  that  told.  And  the  cry  and  the  sword- 
thrust  sealed  his  fate.  A  revolver  cracked,  throwing 
out  for  an  instant  a  glare  of  red  light  into  the  darkness, 
and  Don  Jose  fell  back  upon  the  little  heap  of  upturned 
clay  beside  his  treasure — dead. 

As  he  fell,  a  gleam  of  light  shone  outside  the  door 
way  in  the  patio,  and  then — carrying  a  lantern,  and 
armed  with  no  better  weapon  than  his  big  hoe — Pedro 
rushed  into  the  room ;  behind  him  came  Paquita,  and 
with  her,  wild-eyed  and  fear-stricken,  Juanita.  The 
light  lasted  only  for  an  instant.  The  revolver  cracked 
again,  and  Pedro  fell  dead  by  the  side  of  Don  Jose.  In 
the  war-time  of  old,  often  had  Pedro  prayed  that  should 
his  master  fall,  battling  fairly  with  an  honorable  foe,  he 
might  thus  fall  beside  him.  But  what  bitter  irony  of 
that  prayer  it  was  that  they  should  die  together  in  such 
a  dastard  fight  as  this ! 

For  the  instant  that  the  light  lasted  Juanita's  eyes 
met  those  of  her  father's  murderer ;  and  even  the  Senor 
Richards,  who  was  blessed  with  a  commendable  coolness 
imder  trying  circumstances,  trembled,  with  chilled  blood, 
before  that  wild  look  in  which  were  mingled  a  deadly 
horror  and  a  desolate  despair.  Then  Pedro's  life  and 
the  light  went  out  together ;  and  went  out  also  all  light 
from  Juanita's  forever-darkened  soul. 

In  the  darkness  the  two  women  heard  the  murderer 
move  the  bodies  upon  the  floor ;  heard,  a  little  later, 
the  clink  of  silver — he  was  not  the  man  to  lose  the  fruit 
of  his  work ;  heard  him  pass  through  the  door,  close 
beside  them,  and  so  across  the  patio  to  the  corral,  where 
his  horse,  ready  saddled,  stood  tethered ;  heard  him 
mount,  and  heard  the  sound,  ever  lessening,  of  his 


THE  TOWN  OF  THE  HOLY  CHILDREN.         125 

horse's  hoofs  as  he  galloped  toward  the  ford  in  the 
river,  guided  by  the  clear,  pale  light  of  the  stars.  So 
still  was  the  night  that  they  even  heard  the  splashing  of 
water  as  he  crossed  the  ford  at  Chamita.  At  the  same 
moment  sounded  shrilly  the  whistle  of  the  approaching 
train  for  the  Xorth  ;  and  they  knew  that  to  arouse  pur 
suit  was  useless — for  the  devil  had  saved  his  own. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH. 

GEORGE  RAND,  of  tough  New  England  stock,  was  as 
brisk  and  as  capable  an  engineer  as  ever  held  a  transit. 
But  with  his  cool,  practical  Yankee  blood  ran  another 
strain.  His  grandfather,  more  fortunate  than  most  young 
Americans  of  his  day,  had  been  sent  over  seas  to  make 
the  grand  tour ;  and  had  vexed  sorely  the  Puritan  pre 
judices  of  his  family  by  bringing  home  a  Papist  wife. 
The  land  of  her  birth  never  was  clearly  known  in  the 
family,  for  the  respectable  New  England  folk  to  whom, 
thus  unwarrantably,  she  had  become  akin,  simply  and 
decidedly  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her. 
Therefore,  she  lived  with  her  husband  apart  from  the 
world,  bore  him  a  child  or  two,  and  then,  possibly  not 
unwillingly,  yielded  up  the  ghost.  Her  portrait,  hang 
ing  in  the  Rand  drawing-room — in  the  old-fashioned 
house  up  at  the  State-House  end  of  the  Common,  in  a 
private  way  ceremoniously  chained  off  once  a  year  to 
the  end  that  its  privacy  might  be  kept  inviolate — was 
proof  enough  that  she  came  from  a  southern  land :  a 
gentle,  gracious  face  of  clear  olive  brown  ;  dark  eyes, 
all  fire  and  tenderness ;  lips  soft  and  full,  on  which 
warm  kisses  seemed  to  wait. 

As  a  little  boy,  Rand  fell  into  the  odd  habit  of  wor- 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  127 

shiping  this  portrait :  not  metaphorically  but  literally. 
In  the  doubtful  light  of  dying  day,  in  the  warm  dark- 
someness  of  summer  afternoons  when  close-bowed  shut 
ters  barred  the  sunlight's  entrance,  he  would  steal  softly 
into  the  room  and  kneel  before  the  picture  and  make 
to  it  strange  prayers  of  his  own  devising — until  one  day 
he  was  fairly  caught  in  the  midst  of  this  irregular,  not 
to  say  unholy,  adoration  by  his  mother.  Mrs.  Hand 
was  a  severely  common-sensible  young  woman,  born  in 
Newtonville,  who,  being  fair  herself,  and  holding  to 
sound  Congregational  doctrine,  hated  black-haired  Pa 
pistical  women  as  she  hated  the  personal  devil  who  was 
an  important  part  of  her  rigid  creed.  Therefore,  find 
ing  her  offspring  thus  engaged,  she  was  not  a  little  hor 
ror-stricken  :  which  feeling  found  characteristic  expres 
sion  upon  the  person  of  the  offender  in  a  sound  spanking. 
Possibly  this  form  of  correction  was  not  precisely  suited 
to  the  offense  that  it  corrected.  But  it  seemed  to  have 
the  desired  effect.  So  far  as  outward  and  visible  wor 
ship  went,  George  Rand  worshiped  his  grandmother's 
portrait  no  more. 

With  the  years  that  followed  at  school  and  college 
in  the  keen  jSTcw  England  atmosphere,  with  yet  more 
years  of  sternly  practical  life  passed  in  building  railroads 
in  the  energetic  West,  whatever  had  been  moody  and 
whimsical  in  the  boy  disappeared.  When  he  was  seven- 
or  eight-and-twenty,  being  then  back  in  ISTew  England 
at  work  on  a  road  that  gave  him,  before  it  was  finished, 
a  couple  of  years  of  life  in  the  East,  he  married  :  as 
genuine  a  love-match,  he  believed,  as  ever  was  made  by 
man.  Mrs.  Hand  the  elder  was  well  pleased  with  this 
marriage,  for  her  daughter-in-law  was  a  woman  after 


128  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

her  own  heart :  of  good  Salem  stock,  clever,  wholesome, 
and,  withal,  fair  to  look  upon,  and  having  a  loving 
heart.  That  her  lovingness  for  her  husband  was  deep 
and  genuine  there  could  not  be  a  doubt,  and  very  tender 
was  her  husband's  love  for  her — and  these  loves  were 
yet  stronger  and  yet  richer  after  the  boy  was  born. 
The  marriage  was  one  of  those  ideal  marriages  in  which 
respect  and  trustfulness  and  feeling  of  good  comrade 
ship  unite  to  make  an  earnest,  lasting  love. 

Before  the  baby  was  a  year  old,  Hand  went  down  to 
Mexico.  It  was  tough  work  for  him  to  go,  but  his  going 
scarcely  was  a  matter  of  choice.  Such  a  chance  as  was 
offered  to  him  was  not  likely  to  come  twice  in  a  life 
time — not  often  in  an  engineer's  lifetime  did  such  a 
chance  come  once.  The  tide  was  turning,  and  he  could 
not  afford  to  miss  so  fair  an  opportunity  to  take  it  at 
the  turn.  Like  the  brave  woman  that  she  was,  his  wife 
gave  him  brave  words  of  cheer  and  comforting  ;  bearing 
her  share,  and  more  than  her  share,  of  the  bitter  trial  of 
parting,  that  his  share  might  be  less.  So,  with  great 
love  for  her,  and  cherishing  in  his  heart  the  loving  God 
speed  with  which  she  had  sent  him  forth,  he  journeyed 
downward  into  the  South. 

Late  day  is  a  very  perfect  time  in  Mexico.  As  the 
sun  sinks  behind  the  mountains,  and  the  glare  and  heat 
go  after  it,  cool  shadows  come  forth  modestly  from 
where  they  have  been  in  hiding  all  day  long ;  and  a 
cool,  delicious  breeze  sweeps  down  from  the  mountains 
comfortingly ;  and  after  the  weariness  of  long  hours  of 
scorching  sunlight  there  is  coolness,  and  shadiness,  and 
rest. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.         129 

Then  do  the  house-doors  open  slowly,  one  by  one,  and 
those  who  have  sought  shelter  from  the  heat  within  the 
thick  clay  walls,  arouse  themselves  from  sleep  and  come 
forth  drowsily.  Little  groups  form  here  and  there  be 
fore  the  open  doors  and  talk  about  nothing — with  the 
ease  that  only  a  life-long  habit  of  talking  about  nothing 
can  give.  Women  pass  and  repass  to  and  from  the 
spring — or  the  acequia,  if  the  town  is  not  lucky  enough 
to  o\vn  a  spring — bearing  upon  one  shoulder,  gracefully, 
great  water-jars ;  "oyas,"  as  they  call  them  in  the  soft 
ened  Spanish,  that  is  not  of  Spain.  Thin  lines  of  smoke 
curl  upward  from  many  little  fires,  and  a  smell  of  many 
tortillas  cooking  comes  most  cheeringly  to  the  nostrils 
of  a  hungry  man. 

George  Hand,  standing  in  front  of  an  adobe  house, 
waiting  for  his  supper  to  be  made  ready,  dwelt  upon 
this  slow-going  activity  and  found  therein  great  solace 
for  his  soul.  It  was  not  new  to  him,  now.  In  one  little 
town  or  another,  where  his  headquarters  for  the  time 
had  been,  he  had  known  it  and  greatly  relished  it  each 
night  for  the  past  half  year.  But  custom  could  not 
stale  for  him  the  charm  of  this  easy-going  languorous 
life  ;  that  yet  had  underlying  it  lava  seas  of  passionate 
energy — whence,  at  any  moment,  might  burst  forth 
storms  of  raging  hatred,  or  not  less  raging  storms  of 
love. 

In  some  strange  way  that  he  could  feel,  but  could 
not  understand,  Hand's  whole  heart  went  out  to  these 
people,  whose  life  and  customs  and  modes  of  thought, 
though  so  unlike  those  of  the  people  from  among  whom 
he  came,  in  very  truth  seemed  those  to  which  he  had 
been  born.  It  was  an  absurd  fancy,  of  course,  but  from 
9 


130  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  first  day  that  he  was  in  Mexico  he  had  felt  not  like 
a  stranger,  but  like  one  who,  having  been  for  long  years 
in  foreign  lands,  at  last  gladly  and  thankfully  comes 
home.  Each  day  this  feeling  had  grown  stronger,  until 
now  it  well-nigh  wholly  possessed  his  being — frighten 
ing  him  when,  as  would  happen  now  and  then,  he  real 
ized  how  utterly  he  was  becoming  estranged  from  his 
own  land.  At  first  he  had  given  play  to  this  queer 
fancy,  taking  a  humorous  pleasure  in  strengthening  it 
by  throwing  himself  as  completely  as  possible  into  the 
life  that  surrounded  him ;  by  seeking  to  adopt  not 
merely  Mexican  customs  of  living  but  Mexican  views  of 
life  and  modes  of  thought.  And  now,  when  he  was  be 
ginning  to  realize  how  completely  his  whim,  as  he  had 
regarded  it,  had  become  himself,  the  way  backward  was 
beset  with  difficulties  hard  to  pass.  Moreover,  he  knew 
that  he  was  losing  his  old-time  fighting  power ;  that  his 
moral  strength  was  slipping  away  from  him ;  that  he 
was  dropping  each  day  more  and  more  into  the  very 
Mexican  habit  of  drifting  with  the  stream. 

The  only  strong  ties  which  bound  him  to  the  sterner, 
higher  civilization  of  which  he  had  been  a  part,  were 
his  wife  and  child.  These  still  were  realities  to  him  ; 
but  even  these  were  beginning  to  grow  unreal.  Each 
week  came  loving  letters  from  his  wife,  fresh  breezes 
which,  for  a  little  space,  cleared  the  warm,  enervating 
atmosphere  in  which  he  lived.  While  the  freshness 
lasted  his  answers  were  written.  He  found  that  if  he 
suffered  more  than  a  day  to  pass  after  the  letter  came, 
the  effort  of  writing  was  so  great  that  he  had  not 
strength  to  overcome  it.  He  believed  that  his  love  for 
his  wife  still  was  strong  and  true — yet  would  he  be 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH. 

startled  now  and  then  when  he  found  himself  fancying 
what  his  life  would  have  been  had  he  not  married  this 
fair  Saxon  woman,  but  one  of  these  Mexican  women 
whom  he  now  saw  around  him :  whose  dark  beauty  en 
treated  him,  and  whose  Latin-Indian  blood  was  flame. 
These  were  not  safe  thoughts,  still  less  safe  were  they 
when  from  generalities  they  descended  to  particulars ; 
when  he  came  to  think  how  his  life  might  have  been 
shaped  had  he  been  born  not  in  Massachusetts  but  in 
Chihuahua,  had  he  won  not  the  prettiest  girl  in  Salem 
but  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Santa  Maria  de  la 
Canada  for  his  wife.  Now  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  Santa  Maria  was  Josefa,  daughter  of  the  old  Mexican 
in  whose  house  he  lived. 

Possibly,  then,  Rand's  enjoyment  of  the  awakening 
life  in  the  village  that  evening  was  less  wholesome  than 
keen.  It  was  keen,  most  certainly.  Santa  Maria  was 
a  mere  mite  of  a  village,  but  it  was  perfect  as  a  type. 
Low  adobe  houses  straggled  around  three  sides  of  the 
treeless  plaza  ;  on  the  fourth  side  was  the  church.  Back 
of  the  houses  lay  corrales  and  gardens  ;  and  back  of  these 
again  the  cultivated  fields,  crossed  and  recrossed  by 
acequias  through  which  the  water  came  that  made 
fruitful  the  land.  And  back  of  all,  towering  up  grandly, 
in  blue-black  masses  against  the  evening  sky,  the  mount 
ains.  Hand  had  seen  fifty  villages  like  this  since  he 
came  into  Mexico ;  during  the  two  months  that  he 
had  been  quartered  there  he  had  seen  this  very  village 
under  precisely  these  conditions  more  than  fifty  times, 
but  his  enjoyment  of  it  all  was  as  fresh  and  full  as 
though  that  night  it  all  were  new  to  him.  But  with 
his  enjoyment  was  blended  now  a  deeper  feeling  than 


132  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

that  which,  in  the  beginning  he  had  known.  When  he 
came  to  it  at  first,  he  had  loved  this  simple,  placid  life 
with  slumberous  surroundings  purely  for  itself,  for  its 
beauty,  for  its  restf ulness  ;  and  these,  truly,  were  cause 
enough  for  love.  But  now,  half  consciously,  half  un 
consciously,  his  love  was  less  for  the  life  at  large  than 
for  the  single  figure  that  had  come  to  be  to  him  its 
center  and  its  type.  Standing  there  before  the  door 
way,  in  the  waning  light  of  day,  it  was  of  her,  rather 
than  of  the  village  and  the  villagers  before  him,  that 
he  thought. 

As  he  stood  thus  dreamily,  Josefa  came  out  from 
the  house  and  stood  beside  him  for  a  moment,  while 
she  told  him  that  his  supper  was  ready.  He  started  as 
he  heard  her  voice,  and  as  he  turned  to  enter  their  eyes 
met  full :  in  his  there  was  a  look  of  longing,  of  sadness, 
of  doubt ;  in  hers  there  was  a  dangerous  light,  half  of 
defiance,  half  of  strong  love  confessed.  He  paused  by 
the  doorway  that  she  might  pass  in  before  him.  As 
she  passed,  her  warm  hand  brushed  lightly  against  his. 

That  Rand  should  take  up  his  quarters  in  a  Mexi 
can  house,  instead  of  in  camp,  was  the  outcome  of  his 
whim  for  identifying  himself  with  the  Mexican  peo 
ple  ;  with  the  further  and  more  practical  reason  that 
it  gave  him  opportunities  for  studying  Spanish  which 
could  be  had  in  no  other  way.  He  had  imagined  that 
his  desire  in  this  direction  would  be  easily  gratified, 
but  as  he  tried  to  gratify  it  in  one  village  after  another, 
as  his  work  advanced  and  his  camp  moved  forward, 
and  failed  always,  his  views  concerning  household  life 
in  Mexico  underwent  some  modifications.  Here  was  a 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  133 

people,  he  found,  that  would  not  sell  the  right  of  en 
trance  into  its  homes.  So  he  had  pretty  much  aban 
doned  his  purpose  when,  coming  to  Santa  Maria,  he  fell 
in  with  old  Pepe,  Josefa's  father. 

Pepe,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  sad  old  scamp. 
At  all  times  a  very  perceptible  odor  of  mescal  hung 
about  him,  and  frequently  the  effects  of  this  potent 
liquor  were  visible  in  the  tangled  condition  of  his  legs  ; 
though  it  is  a  notable  fact  that,  save  that  it  finally  sent 
him  into  a  sound  sleep,  mescal  had  no  effect  whatever 
upon  his  rascally  old  brain.  Between  his  love  of  drunk 
enness  and  his  love  of  gambling  Pepe  had  a  hard  time 
of  it,  for  the  demands  of  these  passions  for  ready  money 
were  so  constant  and  so  imperative  that  little  was  left 
on  which  himself  and  his  daughter  could  live.  Things 
had  been  somewhat  better  while  Josefa's  mother  was 
alive  ;  but  she  had  been  dead  for  a  half-dozen  years  now, 
and  in  this  time  Pepe  had  been  driving  as  rapidly  as 
anybody  can  do  anything  in  Mexico  to  the  dogs.  He 
had  sold  his  cattle  one  by  one,  he  had  sold  some  of  his 
ground  and  mortgaged  the  rest — and  he  had  sold  him 
self.  It  was  this  last  sale  that  struck  bitterness  into 
Pope's  soul.  The  sale  had  not  been  accomplished  at  a 
single  stroke.  It  had  come  about  little  by  little,  ten 
dollars'  worth  of  him  going  at  one  time,  five  dollars' 
worth  at  another — as  gambling  necessities,  or  the  need 
for  preparation  for  some  especially  grand  fiesta  required 
—until  now  he  found  himself  bonded  for  near  two 
hundred  dollars  ;  and  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  un 
less  the  blessed  saints  worked  a  miracle  in  his  behalf 
he  would  be  a  bondsman  for  all  the  rest  of  his  days. 
He  also  knew,  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  that  he  was 


134  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

not  precisely  one  of  those  shining  examples  of  virtue 
such  as  the  blessed  saints  are  in  the  habit  of  selecting 
to  work  miracles  upon.  Therefore  his  case  seemed  to 
be  about  hopeless. 

When  this  respectable  Mexican  heard  of  Rand's 
quest,  he  thought  with  much  satisfaction  that  the  saints 
really  were  lending  him  a  helping  hand ;  for  the  fact 
that  all  Americanos  possess  inconceivably  great  wealth 
was  well  known  to  him,  and  he  saw  clearly  an  •  oppor 
tunity  for  making  money  to  an  extent  that  quite  took 
his  breath  away.  He  could  not,  of  course,  hope  to  pay 
oft'  his  bond  and  be  a  free  man  again  ;  but  he  certainly 
could  get  his  hand  on  an  amount  of  hard  cash  that 
would  assure  to  him  a  grand  time  during  the  festival 
of  the  Corpus  Christi,  now  only  a  month  away.  He 
might  even — glorious  thought ! — go  down  to  the  great 
city  of  Chihuahua  and  lie  drunk  there  for  a  whole 
week  ! 

Therefore  Pepe's  heart  was  as  lead  within  him 
when  Rand,  by  no  means  prepossessed  by  his  appear 
ance  and  address,  firmly  declined  his  offer  of  the  free 
dom  of  his  home.  But  Rand  at  last  yielded  so  far  as 
to  consent  to  see  the  house — and  seeing  that  it  was  far 
more  habitable  than  he  had  been  led  to  suppose  by  the 
appearance  of  its  proprietor,  and  moreover  seeing  Jo- 
sefa,  he  filled  Pepe's  heart  with  joy  again  by  accepting 
his  offer  at  once.  Pepe,  who  was  a  shrewd  old  scoun 
drel,  saw  the  involuntary  look  of  admiration  that  Rand 
cast  upon  Josefa,  and  in  his  mind  he  began  to  evolve 
a  plan.  Perhaps  he  might  be  a  free  man  again,  after 
all! 

Jose"fa  had  no  knowledge  of  this  plan,  but,  had  she 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  135 

been  made  acquainted  with  it,  she  could  not  have  played 
more  directly  into  her  father's  hands.  For  there  was 
for  her  a  rare  attraction  in  this  Americano,  who  was  so 
unlike  the  men  of  her  own  race  ;  in  whom,  her  instinct 
told  her,  was  a  power  for  passionate  love  that  equaled, 
if,  indeed,  it  did  not  exceed,  her  own.  But  as  time 
passed  on,  and  the  love  that  she  knew — knew  better 
than  Rand  himself — existed,  was  not  declared,  her  pride 
was  piqued,  and  her  curiosity  was  aroused.  AVhat  man 
ner  of  man  was  this,  she  thought,  who,  with  no  lack  of 
opportunity,  failed  to  make  plain  the  feeling  that  was 
stirring  in  his  heart  2  Under  the  sun  of  Mexico  never 
had  such  man  been  before !  Therefore  was  she  per 
plexed,  and  her  own  heart  was  troubled  and  the  more 
went  out  to  him.  And  the  whole  strength  of  her  be 
ing  was  bent  upon  gaining  a  return  for  her  love. 

Rand  was  not  so  dull  but  that  he  saw  at  least  a 
part  of  this  ;  and  because  he  saw  it,  and  because  he 
knew  how  weak  he  had  become,  he  forced  himself  to 
fight  against  it  and  to  be  strong.  He  called  to  his 
aid  the  steadfast  honesty  and  the  love  of  honor  for 
honor's  sake  that  belonged  to  him  by  right  of  his 
Saxon  blood  ;  and  with  these  he  fought  the  weakness 
that  his  Latin  blood  had  brought  him.  But  his  weak 
ness  had  many  strong  allies.  The  strangeness  of  his 
life,  that  was  all  the  stranger  because  it  seemed  so  fa 
miliar  to  him ;  the  absence  of  the  bracing  moral  atmos 
phere,  out  of  which — even  in  the  roughest  of  his  front 
ier  life  in  the  States — he  had  never  lived  ;  a  climate 
that  filled  him  with  a  fuller,  richer  sense  of  life  than 
he  had  ever  known  :  all  these  forces  were  allies  to  his 
weakness ;  all  were  united  to  arouse  that  portion  of 


136  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

his  nature  which  had  slumbered  ever  since  he  was  a 
boy. 

And  more  than  all  else,  Josefa  wrought  upon  him 
strangely  and  potently.  Her  dark  eyes,  alight  with  fire 
and  tenderness ;  her  clear,  olive-brown  skin,  tinged 
ruddily  with  her  southern  blood;  her  tall,  supple, 
rounded  form  wherein  were  grace  and  strength,  and  a 
vigorous  vitality — these  characteristics  made  up  a  type 
that  was  new  to  him,  yet  that  he  felt  to  be  as  old  as  his 
own  being,  and  a  very  part  of  himself.  Half  uncon 
sciously,  he  would  watch  her  come  and  go  about  the 
house  ;  and  misty  memories  would  rise  up  in  his  mind, 
as  though  all  that  he  now  saw  and  felt  he  had  seen  and 
felt  in  some  other  existence  in  a  time  long  past.  It 
was  like  living  out  a  dream,  or  dreaming  vividly  of 
that  which  he  had  lived. 

For  a  man  constituted  as  he  was,  a  curious  mixture 
of  adverse  elements,  a  dual  being  in  whom  were  united, 
not  combined,  the  instincts  of  two  civilizations  which 
must  remain  irreconcilable  to  the  end  of  time,  the  issue 
of  such  a  conflict  as  had  arisen  within  his  breast  was,  to 
a  great  extent,  a  matter  beyond  his  own  control.  His 
will-power,  played  upon  by  antagonistic  forces  which 
counterbalanced  and  neutralized  each  other,  was  reduced 
well-nigh  to  a  negative  quantity.  A  turn  of  chance 
would  decide  the  result. 

And  the  turn  of  chance  came  that  night  in  Santa 
Maria  with  the  touch  of  Josefa's  hand.  Her  touch 
thrilled  him.  A  flush  came  upon  his  face.  There  was 
a  ringing  in  his  ears.  There  seemed  to  come  a  fever 
into  his  brain. 


THE    FLOWER  OF   DEATH.  137 

She  turned  as  she  passed  him,  and  again  their  eyes 
met.  From  his,  in  the  moment,  the  look  of  sadness,  of 
doubt,  had  vanished ;  but  the  look  of  longing,  grown 
passionate,  remained.  In  hers  there  was  a  look  of  tri 
umph  in  which  also  were  fear  and  a  great  tenderness : 
for  she  knew  that  she  had  conquered  at  last. 

Possibly  Pepe  had  seen  this  encounter — he  had  keen 
eyes,  this  old  villain.  Presently  he  rolled  a  cigar  rito 
deftly,  lighted  it,  and  went  forth  upon  the  plaza,  closing 
the  door  behind  him  as  he  passed.  Kight  had  fallen, 
and  Josefa  had  lighted  the  kerosene-lamp.  Rand  leaned 
back  in  his  seat,  and  slowly  filled  his  pipe  and  began  to 
smoke.  The  puffs  came  fast  at  first,  then  slowly  and 
irregularly,  then  not  at  all.  He  was  watching  Josefa 
as  she  moved  about  the  room,  with  free,  graceful  steps, 
placing  the  house  in  order  for  the  night.  She  did  not 
look  at  him,  for  she  knew  that  his  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  her.  She  grew  a  little  pale,  and  her  breath  came 
quickly. 

He  looked  at  her  thus  for  a  long  while.  He  could 
not  think  coherently.  His  mind  was  in  such  strange 
confusion  that  continuity  of  thought  was  impossible. 
His  only  clear  perceptions  were  of  Josefa's  presence 
and  of  his  consciousness  that  with  the  touch  of  her  hand 
she  had  confessed  her  love  for  him,  and  that  his  eyes 
had  told  her  as  plainly  as  in  words  that  her  love  was 
returned.  He  sat  in  a  sort  of  trance,  motionless,  save 
that  his  eyes  moved  as  they  followed  her  about  the 
room.  There  was  a  fascination  upon  him  that  his  will, 
had  he  exerted  it,  was  powerless  to  break.  But  he  did 
not  in  the  least  degree  exert  his  will :  he  was  dully  con 
scious  of  the  desire  to  sit  thus  silently  looking  at  her 


138  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

always — in  a  vague  way  he  felt  that  ages  before  he  had 
gazed  at  her  thus;  that  he  was  living  over  again  a  life 
that  was  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  past. 

Josefa  drew  nearer  to  him,  making  a  feint  of  placing 
straight  a  picture  of  San  Jose  that  hung  against  the 
wall,  and  paused  by  his  side.  He  saw  that  she  trem 
bled.  She  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  The  Sefior  is  very  sad  and  silent  to-night,"  she  said. 
Her  voice  was  broken.  The  sound  dispelled  the  charm 
that  held  him  still.  Their  eyes  met.  In  a  moment  he 
had  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I  love  you,  Josefa !  " 

For  answer  she  gave  him  her  lips. 

Then  the  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Pepe  entered. 
Rand  thrust  Josefa  from  him,  and  quicker  than  thought 
covered  Pepe  with  his  revolver. 

"  Do  not  shoot,  Sefior,"  said  Pepe,  calmly.  "  Come 
out  with  me ;  I  have  some  words  to  speak." 

Still  holding  his  revolver  ready  for  prompt  service, 
Hand  followed  Pepe  out  into  the  night. 

"  Put  away  your  pistol,  Sefior.  It  is  my  right,  but 
I  shall  not  kill  you.  You  are  safe."  Then  for  a  little 
time  Pepe  was  silent.  In  the  dim  starlight  Rand  re 
garded  him  doubtingly. 

"  I  am  a  poor  man,"  he  went  on,  slowly.  "  I  have 
lost  all  that  I  possessed.  Worse  yet,  I  am  a  bond-serv 
ant  until  the  money  that  I  owe  be  paid.  Will  you  pay 
that  money  for  me,  Sefior  ?  I  beg  of  you,  I  pray  you 
to  pay  it.  And  I  offer  you  a  rich  return.  Pay  it — and 
Josefa  shall  be  yours." 

Rand  shuddered.  He  felt  as  men  feel  who  are  bar 
gaining  with  the  devil  for  their  own  souls.  For  a  time 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.         139 

he  was  silent.  "When  at  last  he  spoke,  it  was  as  men 
speak  who  have  come  close  enough  to  the  devil  to  make 
bargaining  possible. 

"  Yes,  I  will  pay  the  debt,"  he  said. 

Poverty  is  common  enough,  but  squalor  is  rare,  in 
Mexico.  Cleanliness  and  neatness  are  two  strong  Mexi 
can  virtues  that,  finding  practical  expression,  make  the 
meanest  jacales  pleasant  to  look  upon.  This  rule  is  the 
more  sharply  emphasized  by  the  fact  that  here  and  there 
through  the  land  are  found  not  merely  single  houses, 
but  whole  villages  where  utter  squalor  reigns ;  little 
communities  which  in  some  unaccountable  way  have 
lost  every  vestige  of  self-respect.  Los  Muertos  —  so 
called  because  there  had  been  a  bloody  massacre  there 
by  Indians  in  the  long-past  time — was  one  of  the  excep 
tions  ;  and  so  wretched,  so  forlorn  was  it,  that  no  great 
stretch  of  the  imagination  was  required  to  believe  that 
it  was  hopelessly  under  the  spell  of  its  evil  name. 

1  et  the  site  of  the  village  was  very  beautiful.  Here 
four  canons  met  and,  merging,  made  a  delectable  little 
cup-like  valley  dotted  here  and  there  with  low,  rocky 
hills,  between  which  grew  great  cottonwoods  and  pe 
cans,  and  having  broad  sweeps  of  gently  undulating 
land,  yellow  with  fields  of  barley  that  rippled  in  the 
winds.  Along  the  edges  of  the  dry  water-course — 
tapped  at  a  higher  level  to  supply  the  acequias  which 
brought  water  to  the  fields  of  grain  —  were  matted 
masses  of  cactus  in  rich  red  and  yellow  bloom,  and  wide 
coverts  made  up  of  little  shrubs  and  tangles  of  mes- 
quite ;  and  standing  sentinel  above  these  lowly  things 
were  many  palms.  Rising  solemnly  around  and  over 


140  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

all  were  the  grand  mountains,  grave  and  worshipful. 
And  in  the  fall  of  day  the  sun — through  the  canon 
leading  westward — sent  long  glinting  rajs  of  golden 
light  across  the  golden  beauty  of  the  barley-fields  and 
into  and  under  the  waving  branches  of  the  trees.  There 
are  many  places  beautiful  as  this  in  the  fair  Mexican 
land. 

Los  Muertos  was  no  more  than  a  hamlet ;  a  dozen 
little  adobe  houses  clustered  irregularly  about  an  open 
space  that  was  less  a  plaza  than  a  bit  of  waste  land — 
where  foraging  pigs  and  dogs  maintained  an  armed  neu 
trality,  and  where  sad-hearted  burros  strayed.  Standing 
a  little  apart  was  a  ruinous  chapel,  wherein  a  priest 
held  service  at  long  intervals — yet  often  enough  to  sat 
isfy  the  community's  not  excessive  spiritual  needs.  Or 
dinarily,  feast-days  and  Sundays  were  celebrated  in 
gambling  and  drinking  booths,  set  up  expressly  for  the 
observance  of  these  rites ;  and  by  evening  there  usually 
was  a  fight  or  two,  and  now  and  then  a  man  was  killed. 
Not  much  excitement  attended  these  incidental  murders. 
In  some  odd  corner  a  hole  was  dug  for  the  dead  man's 
burial,  and  then  things  went  on  as  before.  There  were 
few  men  in  Los  Muertos  whose  death  could  be  anything 
but  a  benefit  to  the  survivors. 

A  dozen  rods  or  so  away  from  the  village,  on  a  bluff 
above  the  river-bed,  stood  what  was  left  of  the  great 
house  of  which  the  smaller  houses  once  had  been  the  de 
pendencies—for  Los  Muertos,  in  its  better  days,  had  been 
a  thriving  hacienda,  and  the  village  had  been  inhabited 
by  the  work-people  of  the  estate.  Now  the  land  was 
cut  up  into  small  holdings,  and  the  owner  of  the  great 
house — if  it  had  an  owner — had  suffered  it  to  fall  into 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH. 

decay.  Only  a  room  or  two  of  all  the  building  re 
mained  measurably  weather-proof.  Elsewhere  the  roof 
had  fallen  in,  and  over  the  fragments  of  the  fallen  roof 
the  unprotected  walls  were  crumbling  down.  The  \valls 
of  the  corral  had  fallen,  also,  in  places,  and  in  the  gaps 
had  been  heaped  piles  of  mesquite-brush  and  cactus. 
In  some  of  the  deserted,  roofless  rooms,  and  over  the 
broken  walls,  cactus  plants  were  growing  rankly, 
their  vigorous  life  marking  with  greater  emphasis 
the  wreck  and  desolation  in  the  midst  of  which  they 
grew. 

Across  the  valley,  from  the  canon  on  the  north  to 
ward  the  canon  on  the  south,  curving  around  the  bases 
of  the  little  hills,  ran  the  course  of  the  railway  ;  marked 
by  the  line  of  cuts  and  fills  that  every  day  was  a  little 
farther  advanced.  Upon  the  mountain-side,  that  the 
rare  luxury  of  a  spring  of  sweet  water  might  be  to  the . 
full  enjoyed,  were  the  white  tents  of  the  contractor  and 
engineer*;  and  clustered  around  these  the  queer  abodes 
— wicker  huts  and  shelters  of  palm  thatch  and  sleeping- 
places  under  trees  —  of  the  Mexican  workers  on  the 
grade.  In  the  Mexican  part  of  the  camp  bits  of  bright- 
colored  clothing  hung  around  the  bushy  shelters;  women 
stood  beside  little  fires  cooking  not  unsavory  messes  in 
little  earthen  pots,  or  boiling  clothes  in  old  powder- 
cans  ;  half-naked  children  ranged  about  in  amicable 
companionship  with  pigs  and  dogs,  and  hobbled  burros 
went  sadly  and  solemnly  from  place  to  place  with  a 
motion  fit  to  be  likened  only  to  that  of  automatic  kan 
garoos — and  the  whole  made  a  picture  very  good  for 
eyes  appreciative  of  the  picturesque  to  dwell  upon. 

But  liand,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  work,  did  not 


142  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

live  in  the  camp.  He  had  taken  up  his  quarters  in  the 
ruinous  hacienda;  and  with  him  was  Josefa.  Those 
who  had  known  him  only  before  he  came  into  Mexico 
would  not  have  known  him  now.  In  the  year  that  had 
passed  the  whole  expression  and  tone  and  manner  of 
the  man  had  changed.  His  briskness  and  erectness 
were  gone,  and  in  their  stead  he  had  acquired  a  slouch 
ing  slowness.  Grim  taciturnity  had  taken  the  place  of 
his  habit  of  frank,  cheery  speech.  His  eyes,  which  had 
been  wont  to  look  straight  into  other  men's  eyes,  were 
cast  downward  or  raised  only  in  quick,  furtive  glances ; 
and  in  his  eyes,  and  over  all  his  face  and  form,  there 
was  an  unlifting  weight  of  melancholy.  Jim  Post,  axe 
man,  expressed  the  sense  of  the  corps  in  the  premises 
tersely  and  with  precision  : 

"  Looks  as  if  he  felt  hisself  atween  hell  and  high 
water  all  the  time  !  " 

And,  in  truth,  the  life  that  Band  had  led  in  the  half 
year  since  he  had  struck  the  bargain  with  Pepe  in  Santa 
Maria  had  been  the  life  that  Jim  Post's  rough  thrust  of 
speech  described.  The  very  act  of  going  over  the 
precipice  had  aroused  him — when  it  was  too  late — to  a 
partial  realization  of  what  he  had  done ;  and  as  time 
passed  on,  the  deadening  of  his  soul  that  he  had  hoped 
for  did  not  come.  His  two  natures  remained  in  open 
war,  and  the  more  that  he  sought  to  crush  the  one  with 
the  other  the  more  steadily  the  fight  went  on.  His 
wife's  letters,  loving,  tender,  came  down  to  him — and 
were  thorns  in  his  flesh  giving  him  keenest  agony.  She 
knew,  she  could  not  fail  to  know,  that  a  change  of  some 
sort  had  come  over  him  ;  but  no  suspicion  of  what  the 
change  really  was  could  for  a  moment  enter  her  faith- 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  143 

fill  heart.  She  feared  that  his  life  was  too  rough,  his 
work  too  hard  for  him,  and  she  begged  him  to  cancel 
his  engagement  and  come  home.  She  told  him  of  the 
joy  it  would  be  to  her  to  have  him  with  her  once  again  ; 
she  told  him  of  her  quiet  home  life ;  she  told  him  of 
their  boy— and  all  this  gentle  lovingness  and  trustful 
ness  brought  infinite  bitterness  to  his  soul.  Sometimes 
for  days  after  her  letters  came  he  would  suffer  them  to 
remain  unopened,  dreading  the  pain  that  reading  them 
would  give ;  sometimes  he  would  open  them  the  mo 
ment  that  they  arrived,  so  that  the  pain  might  sooner 
come  and  go.  His  answering  letters  filled  her  with  a 
strange  dread  and  grief.  At  times  he  would  write  only 
a  few  cold  words,  telling  dryly  of  his  work ;  and  then 
again  he  would  write  with  despairing  tenderness,  as  a 
condemned  criminal  might  write  on  the  eve  of  his  execu 
tion  ;  and  yet  again  he  would  write,  darkly,  mysterious 
ly,  in  bitter  self-reproach  of  his  own  unworthiness  of 
her  pure  love.  The  strangeness  of  his  moods  struck 
into  her  warm  and  steadfast  heart  a  deadly  chill. 

Josefa's  instinct  told  her  that  these  letters  which 
came  to  liand  were  in  sharp  opposition  to  her  love  for 
him.  Little  by  little,  questioning  him  shrewdly,  she 
learned  the  truth — and  hated  with  a  fierce  intensity  of 
jealous  hate  this  "  Mary  "  (for  she  caught  the  name  and 
held  it  rankling  in  her  heart)  who  stood  between  her 
and  the  fullness  of  love  that  should  be  hers ;  and  when, 
after  a  fresh  letter  had  come,  lie  turned  from  her  cold 
ly,  her  jealous  hate  included  him  also.  More  than  once 
she  had  stood  over  him  as  he  slept  with  knife  in  hand 
and  arm  upraised  to  strike— and  had  not  struck  because 
before  the  knife  could  fall  the  hate  in  her  heart  had 


144  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW   SPAIN. 

changed  to  love  again.  For,  after  all,  she  thought,  the 
other  woman  might  claim  him,  but  she,  Josefa,  pos 
sessed  him.  If  this  possession  should  be  threatened, 
then,  indeed,  the  time  would  come  to  act ;  even  at  her 
own  cost ! 

Rand  did  not  know  that  he  was  living  almost  in  the 
shadow  of  death ;  but,  had  he  known  it,  his  desire  would 
have  been  only  that  death  might  come  quickly.  For  he 
knew  despairingly  that  he  had  made  his  venture,  and 
that  he  had  lost.  The  ease  of  life  that  he  had  hoped 
for  when  he  broke  out  from  the  civilization  that  he  was 
born  to,  and  entered  the  civilization  upon  which  he  had 
a  claim  by  hereditary  right,  had  not  come.  It  had 
seemed  so  easy  to  him,  back  there  in  Santa  Maria,  to  throw 
off  the  few  remaining  bonds  that  held  him  to  the  North 
and  to  become  of  the  South  utterly ;  so  easy  that  he  half 
thought  the  bonds  had  fallen  away  of  themselves  and 
would  not  need  to  be  broken  at  all.  But  his  attempt  to 
break  them  had  shown  him  how  vain  the  effort  was. 
What  he  thought  was  a  snapping  irrevocable  had  been 
but  yielding,  as  a  bow  yields  ;  and,  ever  since,  by  a  con 
stant  strain,  as  a  bent  bow  draws  against  the  string,  he 
had  been  drawn  backward  toward  the  life  that  he  had 
thought  forever  to  leave  behind.  His  very  weakness 
held  him  from  yielding  to  this  strain.  He  longed  to 
return,  but  lacked  strength  to  break  the  bonds  that  he 
had  bound  himself  with.  Yet  he  knew  that  no  great 
access  of  energy  was  needed  to  enable  him  to  be  free ; 
and  he  hoped,  as  weak  men  are  wont  to  hope,  for  the 
action  of  some  force  from  without  that  would  arouse 
him  thoroughly,  give  him  full  command  of  his  ino.ral 
strength,  and  so  help  him  to  break  away. 


THE  FLOWER  OP  DEATH.  145 

And,  at  last,  the  shock  that  he  hoped  for  in  his 
weakness  came.  It  was  a  telegram — three  days  old, 
for  the  end  of  the  wire  still  was  fifty  miles  away  to 
the  north — telling  him  that  his  boy  was  dead,  and  his 
wife  so  ill  that  he  must  come  to  her  at  once  if  he 
would  see  her  again  alive. 

"  I  must  leave  you,  Josef  a.  I  go  from  here  into 
the  IS'orth,  to  my  home." 

She  started  violently,  and  then  her  form  grew  rigid. 
There  came  into  her  eyes  a  curious  expression  that  was 
new  to  him  :  a  mingling,  as  it  seemed,  of  hate  and  love. 
Without  speaking,  she  waited  for  his  further  words. 

"  You  have  loved  me  greatly,  Josefa,  far  more  than 
I  have  deserved ;  now  love  me  yet  more  by  forgetting 
that  you  ever  have  loved  me  at  all.  You  will  go  back 
to  your  father  in  Santa  Maria,  and  you  will  be  the  bet 
ter  because  I  am  gone." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  Her  great  black 
eyes  opened  wide.  Presently  a  blaze  of  hate  shot  into 
them. 

"  You  are  going  to — to  that  woman  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  am  going  to  my  wife.  She  is  dying — God  help 
me  !  she  may  now  be  dead." 

"  Then  I  declare  that  you  shall  not  go !  You  are 
mine — mine,  I  say.  She  shall  not  have  you.  I  would 
sooner  that  you  should  die."  And  then  breaking  sud 
denly  from  hate  to  tenderness,  she  flung  herself  upon 
him  and  went  on,  while  her  whole  body  quivered  with 
her  sobbing :  "  For  you  are  my  heart,  my  life  ;  you  are 
everything  to  me  ;  you  are  all  that  I  have  in  all  the 
world  to  love."  Then,  flinging  from  him,  and  glaring 
at  him  with  rageful  eyes  :  "  I  hate  her,  and  I  hate  you 
10 


146  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

for  loving  her.  Dare  to  go  a  step  toward  her  !  Dare 
to  leave  me! — and  I  will  kill  you  as  I  would  a  dog! 
She  has  no  right  to  you  now.  You  have  come  to  me 
and  you  are  mine.  You  can  not  leave  me.  You  shall 
not  leave  me.  You  shall  die  first — ah !  my  heart,  tell 
me  that  you  will  not  go  away.  Tell  me  again  that  you 
love  me.  Give  me  one  little  kiss.  For  I  am  all  yours, 
and  you  are  all  to  me." 

Rand  paled  and  trembled.  The  magnificent  splen 
dor  of  her  beauty  overwhelmed  him  as  her  noble  figure 
towered  exalted  by  her  hate,  or  drooped  with  an  en 
treating  graciousness  in  her  boundless  love.  That  he 
did  not  yield  to  her  should  be  accounted  unto  him  a 
victory  that  went  far  toward  atoning  for  the  sin  of  his 
first  defeat. 

Slowly  he  turned  away  from  her ;  slowly  passed 
through  the  doorway  to  where  his  horse  stood  tethered  ; 
slowly  mounted — then,  beating  his  horse's  flanks  with 
his  great  spurs,  dashed  at  a  tremendous  gallop  across 
the  valley  toward  the  camp  of  the  engineers. 

Josefa  knew  that  his  determination  was  fixed  ;  that 
he  had  gone  to  make  hasty  preparations  for  his  journey ; 
that  he  would  leave  her  never  to  return.  For  this  her 
heart  cast  all  love  out  of  it,  and  was  filled  with  a  bitter, 
jealous  hate.  She  sat  down  quietly  that  she  might 
make  her  plans  for  killing  him.  Yet  the  more  that 
her  mind  dwelt  upon  what  had  passed  and  what  yet 
was  to  come,  the  more  did  she  feel  that  mere  killing 
would  not  satisfy  her.  Because  of  her  hate  of  the 
woman  who  was  taking  him  from  her  she  required  a 
more  exquisite,  a  more  complete  revenge.  That  Rand's 
wife  had  any  rights  in  the  premises  never  once  oc- 


THE  FLOWER  OF   DEATH. 

curred  to  Josefa,  any  more  than  did  the  thought  that 
she  had  done  this  wife  a  grievous  wrong ;  for  a  Mexican 
woman  of  Josef  a's  class  thoroughly  believes  that  great 
love  is  a  broad  and  ample  justification  of  all  that  it  may 
cause.  Therefore  she  hoped  for,  and  presently  saw  her 
way  clear  to,  a  revenge  that  would  strike  both  her  lover 
and  this  other  woman  who  had  stolen  from  her  his 
love. 

From  before  the  time  of  the  Spanish  conquest  there 
has  grown  in  Mexico  a  plant  that  in  the  ancient  tongue 
was  called  tlapatl  in  the  south,  toloatzin  in  the  north 
— names  which  the  softening  influence  of  the  mellow 
Spanish  speech  has  rounded  into  toloache.  Through  all 
these  ages,  even  until  this  present  day,  this  plant  has 
been  used  by  Mexican  women  when  faithlessness  in 
love  has  bred  jealousy,  and  jealousy,  in  turn,  has  bred 
a  longing  for  revenge.  From  its  flowers  and  leaves 
they  make  a  decoction — a  little  bitter,  yet  not  so  bitter 
but  that  coffee  will  disguise  it — and  who  drinks  of  this 
decoction  surely  goes  mad.  A  terrible  madness,  begin 
ning  with  failing  sight  and  dizziness  ;  with  throbbing 
pains  through  all  the  brain  ;  going  on  with  delirium 
and  strange  perversions  of  sight  ;  with  visions  which 
would  be  laughable  but  for  the  dread  horror  of  their 
cause  ;  with  shooting,  burning  pains  in  throat  and 
heart ;  with  partial  loss  of  power  to  breathe,  and  crush 
ing  sense  of  suffocation.  And  if  the  dose  is  so  well 
gauged  that  death  does  not  ensue,  the  pains  at  last  pass 
away  and  the  end  is  a  violent  or  a  melancholy  mad 
ness  that  lasts  for  months,  for  years,  or  through  all  the 
remainder  of  the  victim's  life.  Well  have  the  Span- 


148  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

iards  named  this  hideons  plant  laflor  de  muerto — the 
flower  of  death. 

It  was  the  thought  of  toloache  that  the  devil  put 
into  Josefa's  mind.  She  could  not  but  shudder  as  the 
thought  came  to  her.  She  remembered  old  Pedro, 
in  Santa  Maria,  who  wandered  about  the  village  more 
like  a  wild  beast  than  a  man.  That  her  lover,  this 
beautiful  Americano,  should  become  like  that  horrified 
her. 

No,  she  mused,  she  could  not  do  it.  Better  that 
she  should  die  herself.  But  if  she  did  die  ?  "Would  it 
not  be  what  he  wanted  ?  Would  it  not  be  what  that 
other  woman  wanted  ?  For  her  death  would  but 
smooth  the  way  for  his  return  to  her.  "With  this 
thought  jealous  rage  came  into  Josefa's  heart  again. 
Ah !  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  this  wife  of  his  to 
long  and  long  for  him,  and  when  at  last  he  came — if 
ever  he  found  his  way  to  her — to  have  a  madman  in 
her  arms  !  And  he  need  not  have  been  so  cruel ;  surely 
he  might  have  consented  to  stay  in  Mexico.  That  other 
woman  could  not  possibly  love  him  as  she  loved  him. 
No  one  could  love  him  as  she  loved  him — and  Josefa 
rocked  herself  backward  and  forward  as  she  sat  upon 
the  clay  floor,  and  her  body  shook  with  the  mighty 
beating  of  her  heart. 

"  Since  he  Avill  go,  since  she  will  have  him,  let  them 
take  what  must  come  ! "  she  said  at  last  between  her 
teeth.  Then  she  rose  from  the  floor,  threw  her  shawl 
over  her  head,  and  passed  out.  "With  long,  swinging 
steps,  easy,  graceful,  the  perfect  motion  of  a  perfect 
form,  she  walked  past  the  village,  and  on  toward  the 
mountains  beyond.  Rain  was  beginning  to  fall,  but 


THE   FLOWER  OP  DEATH.  149 

Josefa  did  not  heed  the  rain.  Presently  she  had  en 
tered  the  southern  canon. 

Tliis  southern  canon  was  so  narrow,  and  so  high 
were  the  mountain  walls  which  made  its  sides,  that 
there  was  dusk  in  its  depths  save  at  the  very  peak  of 
noon.  A  mile  from  its  mouth  it  widened  a  little. 
Here,  from  the  flanks  of  the  Sierra,  at  right  angles, 
came  out  a  bastion  of  rock,  its  jagged  crest  dimly  out 
lined  through  the  rain  against  the  gray  sky.  This 
rocky  wall  far  overhung  its  base,  and  so  was  made  a 
deep,  dark  nook  into  which  the  sunlight  never  came. 
No  spring  of  running  water  showed  itself,  but  the  rock 
was  damp,  and  so  also  was  the  earth  at  its  base.  A 
thick  tangle  of  running  vines  spread  over  the  wet  earth 
and  hung  upon  the  rock  above.  In  the  darkest  depth 
of  this  gloomy  place  was  a  great  mass  of  coarse  green 
growth — a  repulsive,  evil  plant  that  sent  forth  a  faint, 
offensive  odor,  and  that,  as  shown  by  its  luxuriant 
growth,  had  concentrated  in  it  a  vast  amount  of  vig 
orous  loathsome  life.  From  among  its  thick  leaves 
sprang  long  trumpet -shaped  flowers,  pale -white  and 
nearly  beautiful,  yet  with  their  beauty  wholly  marred 
by  their  coarse  strength  and  odor  and  sliminess  of  look. 
This  was  the  toloaclie  of  which  Josefa  had  come  in 
quest. 

For  a  moment  she  paused,  pressing  her  hand  upon 
her  heart ;  then,  firmly,  she  pushed  her  way  through 
the  thicket  of  vines  and  gathered  sufficient  for  her 
needs  of  leaves  and  flowers  into  a  corner  of  her  shawl. 
With  her  load  well  hidden,  she  walked  rapidly  through 
the  gloom  of  the  canon — gloomier  now,  for  with  the 
gray  shadows  of  the  rain  were  joined  the  darker  shad- 


150  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ows  of  falling  day — and  so  across  the  open  fields  and 
through  the  village  to  the  old  house. 

As  she  entered  the  door,  she  noticed  that  the  rain 
had  opened  in  the  ruinous  walls  yet  another  crack,  into 
which  had  begun  to  settle  one  of  the  heavy  rafters  that 
upheld  the  thick  clay  roof.  At  any  other  time  this  sign, 
most  ominous  in  an  adobe  house,  would  have  alarmed 
her  greatly.  There  is  nothing  that  a  Mexican  dreads 
more  than  the  fall  of  his  roof.  And  with  reason,  for 
if  death  does  not  come  at  once,  mercifully,  from  the 
crushing  weight  of  the  huge  rafters,  it  comes  more 
slowly  and  more  terribly  by  burial  alive  beneath  the 
mass  of  clay.  But  Josef  a,  in  her  present  mood,  cared 
little  whether  the  roof  held  firm  or  fell.  She  lighted  a 
fire  under  a  shed  in  the  corral  and  be^an  the  making  of 

«— '  O 

the  coffee.  Beside  the  coffee,  in  a  like  earthen  vessel, 
was  the  more  deadly  drink.  She  was  very  quiet  over 
it  all :  for  she  was  resolved  that  when  her  revenge  was 
worked,  when  no  good  could  come  to  her  rival  from 
her  death,  she  would  die.  This  resolution  comforted 
her.  She  felt  that  if  she  were  willing  to  pay  her  life 
for  what  she  did  she  had  a  right  to  do  it.  Yet  in  her 
inmost  soul  she  knew  that  this  was  not  true  reasoning, 
since  her  life  would  have  no  more  value  to  her  when 
her  love  was  gone. 

After  a  while  she  heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
coming  up  the  stony  road  along  the  bluff,  and  then  Rand 
brought  his  horse  into  the  corral.  Pie  had  left  her, 
meaning  not  to  come  back  again,  but  the  need  for  put 
ting  his  work  in  shape  to  be  handled  by  his  subordinate 
had  forced  his  return.  For  a  moment  Josefa  looked  up 
at  him  questioningly,  as  the  hope  leaped  into  her  heart 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  151 

that  he  had  come  back  to  her  in  very  truth.  But  his 
sad,  cold,  answering  look  showed  her  that  her  hope  was 
vain.  So  she  went  on  quietly  with  her  preparations, 
while  he  lighted  a  lamp  inside  the  house  and  settled 
himself  at  his  work. 

Already  the  decisive  step  that  he  had  taken  had  told 
upon  his  moral  tone.  Pie  was  beginning  to  be  a  man 
again  ;  and  a  feeling  not  only  of  horror,  but  of  disgust, 
was  coming  over  him  as  he  began  to  realize  what  his 
life  for  the  past  six  months  had  been.  This  feeling  was 
intensified  as  he  looked  about  him  at  the  dwelling  in 
which,  for  a  good  part  of  the  time,  he  had  been  content 
to  live.  It  was  a  hole  not  fit,  even,  to  be  the  abiding- 
place  of  brutes.  The  room  had  been  one  of  the  store 
rooms  of  the  old  hacienda,  and  was  windowless.  The 
floor  was  sunk  a  couple  of  feet  below  the  level  of  the 
ground  outside,  and  once  three  steps  of  clay  had  led  up 
to  the  doorway,  but  these  steps  now  were  worn  to  a 
broken  slope.  Shoved  into  a  corner  was  a  pile  of 
refuse,  the  long-past  sweepings  of  the  clay  floor ;  not 
recent  sweepings,  for  the  floor  was  foul  beyond  all 
words.  Over  everything — the  dirty  cots  and  bedding, 
the  draggled  table  strewn  with  unwashed  dishes,  among 
which  lay  a  musty  brush  and  comb,  the  mildewed, 
greasy  camp-stools,  the  rusty  Sibley  stove — was  an  air 
of  squalid  foulness  incomparably  repulsive.  In  one 
corner  lay  a  jumble  of  ill-smelling  saddles  and  saddle 
cloths,  from  amid  which,  as  Rand  looked  at  them,  a  rat 
frisked  out.  One  open  doorway,  doorless,  led  into  an 
adjoining  room,  the  roof  of  which  already  had  fallen 
in  and  lay  a  rubbish-heap  upon  the  floor.  Another 
doorway,  at  the  rear,  led  directly  into  the  corral — so 


152  STORIES  OP  OLD   NEW  SPAIN. 

that  chickens  and  pigs  came  in  freely,  and  brought  yet 
more  uncleanness.  Of  a  truth,  Rand  thought,  as  his 
eyes  were  opened  and  he  perceived  the  loathsomeness 
of  his  surroundings,  he  had  indeed  come  to  feed  upon 
husks  and  live  among  swine. 

While  he  sat  writing,  Josefa  brought  him  food,  and 
with  it  coffee.  There  was  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes 
that  puzzled  him  ;  even  as  he  had  been  puzzled  by  her 
silence  since  his  return.  Placing  the  coifee  upon  the 
table,  but  not  within  reach  of  his  hand,  she  looked 
down  upon  him  curiously.  In  her  eyes  shone  a  deep, 
glowing  light,  yet  over  them  a  shadow  seemed  to  rest 
and  veil  their  meaning.  Slowly  she  asked  : 

"  Then  all  is  ready,  and  you  go  ?     And  when  ? " 

"  Now,  to-night." 

"  And  you  leave  me  forever  ? " 

"  My  poor  Josefa,  yes." 

"  Ah,  well,  it  is  a  long  journey  that  you  go  upon. 
You  need  refreshment.  Drink,"  and  she  placed  the 
coffee  by  his  side. 

Her  tone  and  manner  amazed  him.  As  he  raised 
the  cup  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Drink,"  she  said  again ;  while  a  faint  smile  hov 
ered  on  her  full,  red  lips  ;  while  a  deeper  shadow  gath 
ered  in  the  strange  duskiness  of  her  eyes. 

She  stood  before  him  in  the  glory  of  her  perfect 
womanhood.  There  was  a  royal  splendor  in  her  form 
and  pose.  Her  beauty  was  overpowering.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  could  not  resist  the  feeling  of  intense  admira 
tion  that  swept  into  his  heart.  Involuntarily  some  sign 
of  this  feeling  shone  in  his  eyes.  She  saw  it  in  an 
instant,  and  the  shadow  passed  from  her  eyes  and  left 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.  153 

them  bright  with  the  radiance  of  love.  She  struck  the 
cup  from  his  hand  and  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  him, 
clasping  him  close  in  her  soft,  strong  arms. 

"  It  is  all  a  lie !  You  will  not  go !  You  do  love  me ! 
Ah,  why  have  you  been  so  cruel?"  and  with  these 
quick  sentences  came  a  flow  of  the  sweet  love-names  in 
which  Spanish  is  so  rich  and  English  is  so  poor. 

Hand  gently  unclasped  her  arms.  "  No,  it  is  not  a 
lie,  my  poor  little  one,"  he  said.  "  I  must  go.  This  is 
the  very  truth.  Better  for  you,  better  for  me,  it  would 
have  been  had  I  never  come.  But  now  is  the  end." 
There  was  a  grave  firmness  in  his  tone  that  struck  dead 
all  hope. 

"  Yes,  now  is  the  end ! "  echoed  Josefa,  slowly. 
"  See,"  she  added,  "  I  give  you  another  cup  of  coft'ee. 
Drink  it  and  then  go." 

Josef a's  voice  had  not  a  tremor  in  it  as  she  spoke, 
nor  did  her  hand  tremble  as  she  gave  him  the  cup. 
She  stood  rigid  as  a  figure  carved  from  stone  until  he 
had  drained  the  last  drop.  Outside  the  rain  was  falling 
as  it  falls  only  among  the  mountains  of  Mexico.  From 
the  southern  cation  came  the  sound  of  the  roaring  of  a 
mighty  wind. 

"  Yes,"  Josefa  repeated,  "  now  is  the  end  ! " 

She  seated  herself,  as  Mexican  women  are  wont  to 
sit,  in  a  huddled  bunch  upon  the  floor,  her  back  against 
the  wall.  She  regarded  Rand  fixedly,  with  glittering 
eyes,  while  he  went  on  with  his  writing.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  rushing  of  the  rain  and  the  wind's  moan 
ing. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Rand  paused  in  his  work  and 
pressed  his  hand  upon  his  forehead.  Jos6fa  leaned 


154:  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

forward  eagerly.  He  continued  his  writing,  but  un 
easily — passing  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  resting  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  hold  his  body  erect  while  he 
drewr  in  a  deep  breath.  He  turned  at  last  and  said :  "  I 
thirst,  Josefa ;  give  me  water." 

"  I  fear  that  I  am  falling  into  a  fever,"  he  said,  as 
he  gave  her  back  the  earthen  cup  empty.  "  I  have  a 
dizzy  feeling  in  my  head,  and  my  hands  are  hot  and 
dry,  and  there  is  pain  about  my  heart." 

Josefa  nodded.  "  I  also  have  a  pain  about  my 
heart,"  she  said — but  more  to  herself  than  to  him. 

He  tried  to  write  again,  but  presently  pushed  away 
the  paper  from  before  him.  He  rose  from  the  table, 
staggered,  and  nearly  fell ;  then  steadied  himself  by  an 
arm  outstretched  against  the  wall. 

"  How  oddly  things  dance  about  !  It  is  very 
strange ! "  he  murmured.  He  breathed  deeply  and 
laboriously.  A  spasm  of  pain  distorted  his  face,  and 
he  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  then  upon  his 
throat.  "  Give  me  more  water,  my  throat  is  burning," 
he  said — but  he  spoke  in  English,  and  Josefa  did  not 
move.  She  was  sitting  erect,  watching  him — her  mus 
cles  tense,  her  hands  clinched,  her  teeth  set  fast,  her 
eyes  ablaze  with  a  fierce  light.  Her  revenge  had  come, 
and  it  had  brought  her  a  savage  joy. 

He  staggered  to  the  corner  of  the  room  where  the 
olla  rested  in  its  forked  stick,  and  drank  a  long  draught 
of  the  cool  water.  "  Ah  !  it  hurts  me  so  to  swallow," 
he  said  piteously ;  but  still  in  English,  so  that  on  Josefa 
the  pitifulness  of  his  words  was  lost. 

After  drinking  he  stood,  with  the  cup  in  his  hand, 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH.         155 

leaning  against  the  wall.  In  a  few  moments  he  began 
to  move  the  cup  slowly,  and  then  more  rapidly,  from 
rside  to  side,  a  vacant  look  upon  his  face.  Presently 
this  gave  way  to  an  expression  of  interest. 

"  It  is  like  a  juggler's  trick.  All  six  of  the  cups  are 
in  the  air  at  once.  See  how  cleverly  I  catch  them ! 
And  now  here  are  the  rats  come  to  look  at  the  per 
formance.  But  you  must  sit  quite  still,  rats ;  and  the 
short  rats  must  have  the  front  seats.  It  would  be  very 
unfair  to  give  the  long  rats  front  seats  when  they  can 
see  perfectly  well  over  the  short  rats1  shoulders. — ~No ! 
I  will  not  hold  the  rod  steady.  If  you  can't  get  a  sight 
when  the  rod  is  moving  then  you  are  not  fit  to  run  a 
level.  Anyhow,  I  am  not  the  rod-man,  I  am  the  engi 
neer  in  charge  of  this  corps ;  and  if  I  choose  to  wiggle 
the  rod  I  have  a  right  to  do  it. — Why,  you  stupid  Mexi 
can,  I  am  pumping.  Of  course  you  don't  know  what 
pumping  is,  for  you  haven't  a  pump  in  your  whole 
country.  But  this  is  the  way  it's  done,  you  see.  And 
oh  !  how  fresh  and  sweet  the  water  is  !  Give  me  more 
of  it — -more,  there  is  fire  in  my  throat — and  oh !  the 
pain  !  the  pain  !  "  and  he  broke  into  a  moan. 

Of  all  this  Josefa  did  not  understand  a  word.  But 
Rand's  tone  and  gestures  made  clear  to  her  how  surely 
the  toloache  was  doing  its  work — and  horror  was  be 
ginning  to  possess  her  as  she  saw  what  she  had  done : 
for  the  very  hate  that  was  in  her  was  love  in  its  most 
powerful  form.  This  man  was  everything  in  the  world 
to  her— and  she  had  brought  upon  him  what  was  worse 
than  death.  And  the  pain  that  he  suffered :  she  had 
not  counted  upon  that.  His  moaning,  drawn  from  him 
by  his  agony,  was  like  a  knife  in  her  heart.  "When 


156  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  spasm  had  passed  he  spoke  again,  but  now  in 
Spanish : 

"  Josefa,  my  little  one,  where  art  thou  ?  "  Josefa' s 
heart  bounded,  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  moved 
toward  him — and  stopped,  chilled  and  woe-struck,  as 
she  saw  him  moving  his  hands  as  one  searching  in  the 
dark ;  saw  that  his  eyes,  in  which  the  love-light  that 
she  knew  so  well  had  come  again,  were  turned  on  empty 
space. 

"  Come  to  me,  my  Pepita,"  he  went  on.  "  Come  to 
me,  my  little  heart.  Yes,  thou  art  very  beautiful — and 
thy  beauty  is  that  of  which  I  have  dreamed  all  my  life 
long.  Let  me  kiss  thee  on  thine  eyelids,  so.  Dost  thou 
know,  Pepa,  that  the  moment  I  saw  thee — that  day 
when  thy  father  led  me  to  his  house — thine  eyes  seemed 
to  look  down  into  and  stir  the  depths  of  my  heart  ?  I 
think  that  it  was  because  of  thine  eyes  that  I  came  to  love 
thee  so  deeply.  For  I  do  love  thee ;  love  thee  as  I 
never  thought  that  I  could  love.  Give  me  a  kiss,  my 
Pepa,  my  Chepita,  a  little  kiss,  and  say  that  thou  also 
hast  love  for  me.  Ah  !  nestle  close  to  me  in  my  arms, 
and  give  thy  love  for  mine.  For  I  love  thee —  Help  ! 
help  !  Josefa  ?  I  am  in  torture  ;  my  heart  is  wrenching 
me  to  pieces ;  my  throat  is  on  fire ;  I  can  not  breathe. 
Help  me !  I  am  dying ! "  And  so  exquisite  was  the 
pain  that  Rand's  whole  body  writhed  convulsively,  and 
foam  gathered  upon  liis  lips. 

With  a  cry  of  anguish  not  less  keen  than  his,  Josefa 
caught  him  in  her  arms.  Had  she  possessed  ten  thou 
sand  lives  she  would  have  given  them  all,  then,  that  her 
devil's  work  might  have  been  undone.  But  notliing 
could  undo  that  work  now. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH. 

As  the  pain  ebbed  again  a  great  weakness  came  upon 
him.  But  for  her  supporting  arms  he  would  have 
fallen.  Half  leading  him,  half  carrying  him,  she  placed 
him  upon  one  of  the  cots,  and  knelt  upon  the  floor  by 
his  side. 

The  wind  moaned  hollowly,  and  the  rain  fell  upon 
the  clay  roof  with  a  muffled,  thunderous  sound ;  but 
Josefa  heard  only  Rand's  wearily  drawn  breath  and 
sobs,  and  the  wild  beating  of  her  own  heart. 

Resting  upon  the  cot  in  some  measure  eased  his 
pain.  For  a  long  while  he  spoke  no  more.  From  time 
to  time  his  legs  and  arms  twitched  spasmodically,  and 
his  body  trembled  with  the  irregular  throbbing  of  his 
heart.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  horribly  dilated. 
There  was  a  convulsive  motion  of  the  muscles  of  his 
throat. 

Josefa  had  ceased  to  think.  A  numbness  had  fallen 
upon  her  mind  that  mercifully  shut  out  thought.  For 
more  than  an  hour  she  remained  thus,  bending  over 
him,  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  She  was  aroused  by  a  pat 
tering  upon  the  floor,  and,  turning,  saw  a  tiny  stream 
of  water  trickling  down  from  the  roof.  Her  eyes  fol 
lowed  along  the  beam  by  the  side  of  which  the  Avater 
fell.  It  was  the  same  beam  that  she  had  noticed  that 
evening  as  she  entered  the  house.  In  the  interval  the 
crack  in  the  wall  had  widened,  and  the  beam  had  settled 
yet  more  deeply.  As  she  looked  she  saw  the  water  vis 
ibly  eating  away  the  clay ;  she  fancied  that  she  could 
see  the  beam  slowly  sinking — and  she  knew  that  she 
was  in  the  awful  presence  of  death. 

But  death  had  nothing  in  it  of  fear  for  Josefa  now; 
and  the  torturinc;  sorrow  that  had  entered  her  heart  had 

o 


158  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

driven  out  her  longing  for  revenge.  Her  scheme,  be 
got  of  jealous  hate,  for  sending  her  lover  back  to  his 
wife  a  madman,  had  lost  its  charm  for  her  as  she  had 
seen  the  racking  pain  that  its  execution  had  brought 
upon  his  dear  body — his  body  that  had  been  her  life, 
her  god.  Rather  than  that  he  should  live  on,  now, 
though  his  sharp  pain  should  pass  away,  better  death — 
and  she  thought  of  old  Pedro  at  Santa  Maria,  and  shud 
dered.  For  herself,  death  could  not  come  too  soon. 

"  Mary,  I  have  come  at  last ;  come  back  to  you  and 
the  boy." 

Josefa  started  at  the  sound  of  Rand's  voice,  still 
more  at  the  sound  of  this  hated  name.  She  knew  that 
even  in  his  madness  his  love  no  longer  was  hers.  She 
looked  at  the  beam.  The  water  was  meltine;  away  the 

o  «/ 

clay  beneath  it  still  more  rapidly.  This  time  it  was  not 
fancy  that  made  her  believe  that  she  saw  it  move.  Yet 
she  gazed  at  it  as  it  slowly  sank  beneath  the  crushing 
weight  of  the  clay  above,  calmly,  sternly.  For  her  there 
was  no  more  of  hope,  of  sweetness,  in  life ;  only  in 
death  could  she  have  rest.  Death  already  had  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  heart. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Mary  ?  God  knows  I  do  not 
deserve  your  forgiveness  nor  your  love.  But  yet  be 
merciful,  and  take  me  to  your  heart  again  !  " 

A  gush  of  water  burst  in,  and  the  crack  in  the  wall 
became  a  wide  gap  into  which  the  beam  dropped.  The 
wall  tottered.  There  was  a  sound  of  grinding,  rending 
wood,  as  the  light  canes  above  the  rafters,  on  which  the 
clay  rested,  were  wrenched  and  broken.  Masses  of  clay 
fell  upon  the  floor.  Josefa's  body  remained  motionless, 
rigid  ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  steadfastly  upon  the  wreck, 


THE  FLOWER  OP  DEATH.  159 

and  in  them  was  a  look  of  lonely  longing,  of  harsh  de 
spair.  Half  unconsciously,  in  her  bitter  searching  for 
some  faint  sign  of  sympathy  in  her  desolate  strait,  she 
clasped  liand's  hand  in  hers.  As  he  felt  the  touch  his 
face  brightened. 

"  Ah !  you  do  forgive  me,  Mary  !  I  swear  to  you 
that  for  the  sin  which  I  have  wrought,  against  you  and 
before  God,  the  atonement  shall  go  on  through  all  the 
coming  years.  In  all  my  life  to  come,  only  for  you — 

Slowly  the  wall  fell  outward.  With  a  crash  the 
roof  came  down ! 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT. 
I. 

IT  was  one  of  those  warm,  murky  nights  which  come 
in  the  City  of  Mexico  at  the  season  when  the  rains  be 
gin.  A  bank  of  heavy  clouds  in  which  faint  flashes  of 
lightning  gleamed  hung  low  over  the  hills  of  Tepeyac 
— where  is  the  shrine  of  the  blessed  Virgin  of  Guada- 
lupe — and  now  and  then  an  eddy  of  wind  would  suck 
away  a  scrap  of  this  cloud-bank,  whirl  it  over  the  city, 
and  there  empty  it  suddenly  in  a  gush  and  tumult  of 
thunderous  rain.  The  watchmen  swore  great  mouth- 
filling  Spanish  oaths  as  these  drenching  down-pours 
burst  out  from  the  black  sky.  The  braver  of  them  be 
took  themselves  to  the  shelter  of  deep  doorways.  The 
more  timorous  staid  at  their  posts  and  accepted  their 
duckings  with  a  solemn  resignation — preferring  the  cer 
tain  wet  wrath  of  heaven  to  the  possible  scorching  wrath 
of  the  Conde  de  Revillagigedo  :  that  devil  of  a  Viceroy 
whose  whole  life  seemed  to  be  devoted  to  ferreting  out, 
and  thereafter  punishing  in  a  quaint  but  most  stinging 
fashion,  the  lightest  misdeeds  of  honest  men.  A  pretty 
pass  things  had  come  to,  muttered  these  pluvial  martyrs, 
when  a  watchman  might  not  settle  himself  on  a  drenching 
night  for  forty  winks  in  a  friendly  doorway  without  the 
chance  of  being  aroused  at  his  twentieth  wink  by  a  per- 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT. 

sonal  kicking  by  the  Viceroyal  foot,  and  Heaven  only 
knew  what  to  follow  in  the  way  of  extraordinary  expia 
tion  the  next  day  !  Better,  a  thousand  times  better,  the 
happy  time  when  the  viceroys  of  his  Catholic  Majesty 
in  New  Spain  had  kept  their  beds  o'  nights,  and  had 
been  content  to  govern  without  attempting  to  rule  ! 

Between  the  showers  soft  waves  of  warm  air  came 
gently  from  out  the  languid  bosom  of  the  night,  tearing 
aside  the  less  dense  clouds  to  the  southward,  and  so  reveal 
ing  a  wan  point  of  light  where  a  gibbous  moon  just  showed 
above  the  rounded  crest  of  Ajusco.  Then  strange  shad 
ows  would  move  through  the  streets  in  the  long  reaches 
between  the  lamps — whereof  the  yellow  flames  were 
faint  and  fitful  as  their  untrimmed  wicks  burned  low — 
and  strange,  murmurous  noises  were  born  of  the  soughing 
of  the  wind  that  well  might  be  the  sighings  of  souls  set 
free  from  earth  but  which  in  heaven  had  found  no  home. 

Seeing  these  whirling  shadows  and  hearing  these 
sobbing  murmurs,  the  watchmen  crossed  themselves  and 
looked  now  and  again  over  their  shoulders  fearfully. 
For,  truly,  it  was  on  nights  such  as  this  that  the  blessed 
saints  forgot  for  a  while  to  guard  the  city,  and  the  dark 
powers  of  evil  had  full  sway.  At  any  moment,  as  the 
watchmen  knew,  might  come  dashing  around  the  corner 
the  Vaca  do  Lumbre ;  that  devilish,  fire-breathing  cow 
which  came  out  from  the  potrero  of  San  Sebastian  and 
went  galloping  through  the  streets,  wrapped  in  an  un 
holy  halo  of  hell-fire  and  belching  forth  smoke  and 
sparks  and  living  flames,  until  the  crowing  of  the  cocks 
sent  her  scampering  back  to  the  infernal  pit  where  she 
belonged.  Or  La  Llorona,  The  Weeper,  might  be 
abroad,  shrieking  for  her  lost  children  :  and  whoso  was 
11 


162  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

luckless  enough  to  cross  her  path  died  at  the  touch  of 
her  icy  breath  in  chill  and  biting  pain.  Or,  worst  of  all, 
the  terrible  Don  Juan  Manuel,  sinner  above  all  sinners, 
might  come  along — quietly  wrapped  in  his  cloak  and 
looking  as  respectable  as  the  Viceroy  himself — and  ask^ 
as  any  man  might  ask  :  "  What  is  the'hour  of  the  night  ? " 
Nor  would  the  watchman  answering  him,  as  any  watch 
man  might  answer,  "  It  is  two  of  the  clock,"  or  what 
ever  the  hour  might  be,  know  that  he  was  dealing  not 
with  a  living  mortal  but  with  a  damned  soul,  until  he 
heard  Don  Juan  Manuel's  reply,  "  Fortunate  art  thou 
above  all  men,  for  thou  knowest  precisely  the  hour  of 
thy  death  " — and  then  the  knowledge  would  come  too 
late  to  be  of  any  practical  value !  In  the  morning,  on 
the  very  spot  where  Don  Juan  Manuel  had  met  him, 
that  watchman — or  it  might  be  a  man  not  a  watchman — 
would  be  found  dead  ;  and  on  his  dead  face  would  be  a 
look  of  horror  fit  to  freeze  one's  blood  at  thought  of 
what  his  dying  eyes  had  seen. 

Hardy  indeed  were  the  screnos  who  at  that  time 
kept  the  night-watch  of  the  City  of  Mexico :  braving 
supernatural  visitations,  from  the  dread  penalties  of 
which  even  a  prompt  appeal  to  the  protecting  grace  of 
the  blessed  saints  might  not  always  save  them  ;  braving 
the  visitations  of  a  far  too  prying  and  inquisitive  Yice- 
roy,  from  whose  award  of  penalty  for  keeping  lax 
watch  there  was  no  salvation  of  any  kind  at  all ! 

II. 

BUT  one  man  there  was  that  night  of  the  city 
watch  who  took  no  thought  of  the  drenching  rain,  who 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  1G3 

felt  no  fear  of  the  strange  movements  of  tlie  stealthy 
shadows,  and  in  whose  sorrow-burdened  heart  was  a 
dull  rage  against  his  evil  destiny  that  made  him  careless 
of  the  saving  grace  of  heaven  and  defiant  of  the  blight 
ing  powers  of  hell.  "With  the  sweet  fountain  of  his 
life  embittered  at  its  very  source,  what  did  he  care  for 
any  further  ill  that  Fate  might  have  in  store  for  him  ? 

Yet  less  than  six  hours  had  passed  since  this  sorrowful 
Pancho  Brazo  had  believed  himself  to  be  the  very  happi 
est  man  in  the  whole  city  of  Mexico  ;  had  believed  that 
the  happiest  home  in  that  whole  city  was  his  own  home  : 
the  tiny  house  of  two  rooms  wherein  he  dwelt  with  his 
beautiful  wife  Belita,  in  the  Callejon  de  los  Pajaritos — 
the  Little  Street  of  the  Little  Birds. 

It  was  a  marriage  made  in  heaven,  the  neighbors 

o  /  o 

said,  when  this  brisk  Pancho,  the  sereno,  married  the 
lovely  Belita,  daughter  of  old  Rafael  the  cargador. 
Belita  was  known  to  be  as  good  and  as  modest  as  she  was 
beautiful ;  and  this  was  saying  much,  for  she  was  so  very 
beautiful  that  strangers  who  saw  her  for  the  first  time 
usually  drew  a  long  breath  as  they  gazed  upon  her  ;  and 
some  had  been  known  to  pinch  themselves,  to  make 
sure  that  what  they  saw  was  not  the  wonderful  creation 
of  a  dream.  As  for  Pancho — a  most  gallant  young  fel 
low  for  whom  half  the  women  in  the  quarter  where  he 
lived  went  sighing — there  was  not  a  better  man  in  all 
the  city  watch,  nor  one  more  certain  soon  to  be  raised 
to  the  commanding  rank  of  sergeant  in  just  reward  of 
faithfulness  and  zeal.  It  was  known,  moreover,  that 
because  of  his  love  for  Belita  he  had  become  a  very 
miser.  Even  before  his  marriage  he  had  saved  a  won 
derful  store  of  dollars,  of  which  every  single  one  had 


164  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

been  laid  away  in  her  name :  for  the  dearest  wish  of 
his  heart  was  to  be  able,  when  his  promotion  carne  and 
he  should  be  a  person  of  some  consequence  in  the  com 
munity,  to  buy  for  her  a  little  house  with  a  garden 
around  it  that  should  be  altogether  their  very  own. 
Within  the  small  kingdom  that  he  thus  hoped  to  win 
for  her  she  would  be,  he  told  her,  wholly  a  queen. 

Therefore,  the  wedding  was  a  most  happy  one ;  at 
tended  by  many  of  Pancho's  comrades  of  the  city  watch, 
and  by  many  respectable  caryadores  and  aguadvres, 
with  their  wives,  the  friends  of  old  Rafael.  And  after 
the  marriage  ceremony,  in  the  parish  church  of  San 
Jose,  there  was  a  great  feast  at  the  Fonda  de  las  Damas — 
whereat  pulgue  and  good  wishes  were  poured  out  un 
stintedly  ;  and  whereat,  also,  good-natured  jokes  were 
cracked  which  made  the  beautiful  Belita  blush  entranc- 
ingly  to  the  very  tips  of  her  lovely  little  ears. 

It  is  but  just  to  add  that  in  all  the  gossip  that  at 
tended  upon  this  wedding  Chucha  Guerra  was  the  only 
person  who  said  a  single  spiteful  word.  Chucha,  to  be 
sure,  said  not  only  one  but  many  spiteful  words ;  but 
people  only  smiled  when  they  heard  them,  for  it  was 
well  known  throughout  the  quarter  that  Chucha  long 
had  hoped  that  she,  not  Belita,  would  be  Pancho's 
bride.  And  it  was  said,  also,  in  extenuation  of  Chucha's 
bitterness,  that  perhaps  Pancho  had  not  treated  her  very 
well. 

The  home  in  the  Little  Street  of  the  Little  Birds, 
whereto  these  married  lovers  went  to  dwell,  small 
though  it  was,  was  as  full  of  happiness  as  though  it  had 
been  the  whole  of  the  Yiceroyal  Palace  over  on  the 
Plaza  Mayor.  In  a  modest  way  it  also  was  elegant.  A 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  165 

bed,  and  four  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  table,  were 
Belita's  handsome  marriage  portion ;  from  her  aunt — 
the  wife  of  the  rich  dealer  in  charcoal — came  the  beau 
tiful  picture  of  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe  in  its  gilded 
frame  ;  she  herself  had  bought  the  surprising  array  of 
toy  pots  and  pans  wherewith  the  wall  facing  the  front 
door  most  tastefully  was  adorned.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
the  passers-by  to  look  in  at  this  front  door  and  so  to 
see  how  excellent  was  everything  within.  It  was  the 
tidiest  house  in  all  the  quarter ;  and  smells  came  from 
it  at  cooking-time  fit  to  stir  up  unruly  desires  in  the 
stomach  of  the  blessed  St.  Anthony ! 

Belita's  heart  was  set  not  less  strongly  than  was 
Pancho's  upon  realizing  the  golden  hope  of  owning  the 
house  with  a  garden,  and  therein  being  a  very  queen. 
They  had  already  chosen  their  future  kingdom — a  little 
house  just  beyond  the  Gate  of  Belen,  on  the  calzada 
that  led  out  to  the  church  of  La  Piedad.  Of  a  Sunday 
they  would  go  together  down  past  the  Salto  del  Agua 
and  the  Arcos  de  Belen,  and  so  through  the  Garita 
and  along  the  causeway  until  they  came  to  this  blissful 
and  beautiful  dwelling  that  they  were  highly  resolved 
should  be  their  home.  This  also  was  a  house  of  two 
rooms  only ;  but  it  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  garden  that 
was  nearly  forty  varas  square — a  garden  of  fat,  black 
soil  that  would  grow  the  most  ravishing  radishes  and 
lettuces,  and  that  had  in  its  midst  an  apricot-tree,  and 
beside  its  adobe  wall  a  rare  cluster  of  pomegranates. 
Separating  this  estate  from  the  causeway  was  a  wide 
acequia,  whence  could  be  had  freely  all  the  water  that 
the  garden  would  require  ;  and  in  the  aceguia  grew 
calla-lilies  beautiful  to  behold. 


1G6  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

It  was  true  that  the  little  house  was  in  a  most  ruin 
ous  condition ;  that  the  garden  wall  was  falling  in  a 
dozen  places ;  that  the  acequia,  save  where  the  lilies 
grew,  was  choked  with  weeds  ;  but  precisely  because 
their  kingdom  thus  wTas  ragged  and  out  of  elbows  and 
down  at  heel  did  they  rejoice.  In  its  ruinous  condition 
no  one  was  likely  to  buy  it ;  and  its  rich  owner — who 
had  taken  it  for  a  bad  debt,  and  who  did  not  care  a  but 
ton  whether  or  not  a  buyer  for  it  were  found — declined 
to  throw  good  money  after  bad  by  making  repairs 
merely  on  the  chance  that  when  it  was  put  in  order  it 
might  be  sold.  Therefore  had  Pancho  and  Belita  the 
well-grounded  hope  that  no  purchaser  would  appear  be 
fore  their  store  of  dollars  reached  the  modest  figure 
that  would  suffice  to  make  it  their  own.  As  they 
stood  on  the  calzada,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  with  hands 
clasped,  in  rapturous  contemplation  of  this  most  precious 
piece  of  property  they  planned,  and  planned  again,  how 
they  would  restore  and  beautify  it  when  it  should  belong 
wholly  and  absolutely  to  them  alone. 

So  the  weeks  and  the  months  flitted  by  cheerily  in 
the  house  in  the  Little  Street  of  the  Little  Birds.  The 
hoard  of  dollars  steadily  grew  larger ;  Pancho's  speedy 
promotion  to  be  a  sergeant  had  been  as  good  as  prom 
ised  to  him  ;  the  happy  future  that  they  longed  for  was 
very  near  at  hand  ;  and  through  the  time  that  they 
waited  for  yet  greater  happiness  to  come  to  them  the 
lives  of  these  fortunate  young  people  were  gladdened 
constantly  by  the  sweet  and  sustaining  comfort  of  a 
very  perfect  love. 


A  MEXICAN   NIGHT.  1G7 


III. 

BUT  as  Panclio  stood  watch  that  murky  June  night 
— while  the  blustering  torrents  which  swept  out  from 
the  cloud-bank  above  the  hills  of  Tepeyac  drenched  him 
to  the  skin,  and  the  soft  warm  wind  was  full  of  mur 
murous  breathings  as  of  lost  souls,  and  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  pale  moonlight  were  as  animate  monsters — there 
was  no  room  for  dread  of  any  supernatural  danger  with 
in  his  sorrow-laden  heart.  All  his  thought  was  concen 
trated  upon  a  very  terrible  danger  of  an  earthly  sort 
that  menaced  him  ;  a  danger  whereof  the  verity  had 
been  proved  to  him  beyond  a  peradventure,  and  that 
must  bring  him  throughout  the  remainder  of  his  days 
the  open  scorn  of  his  enemies  and  the  half -contemptuous 
pity  of  his  friends. 

It  was  to  Chucha  that  Panclio  owed^  his  knowledge 
of  the  calamity  that  had  overtaken  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  happiness  and  that  in  an  instant  had  turned  the  sweet 
ness  of  his  life  to  gall.  She  was  a  handsome  girl,  this 
Chucha  ;  but  hers  was  so  shrewish  a  temper — as  Panclio 
quickly  discovered  in  the  days  when  he  had  made  a 
little  love  to  her — that  no  man  could  be  found  brave 
enough,  for  all  her  good  looks,  to  take  the  hazard  of 
making  her  his  wife  ;  which  fact,  as  time  and  the  pass 
ing  away  of  lovers  impressed  it  upon  her,  made  her 
nature  yet  sourer  and  gave  a  keener  edge  to  her  sharp 
tongue. 

It  was  this  Chucha,  then,  who  had  stopped  him 
that  very  evening  on  his  way  from  his  home  to  the 
watch-house  of  his  quarter,  and  who  without  wasting  a 


168  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

word  in  greeting  had  said  harshly  :  "  And  thou  art  fool 
enough,  Pancho  Brazo,  to  think  that  through  these  long 
nights  whilst  thou  art  absent  thy  beautiful  Belita  remains 
alone ! " 

It  was  as  though  a  knife  had  been  thrust  into  his 
heart  when  Pancho  heard  these  words.  He  turned  pale 
and  staggered  back  until  he  found  support  against  a 
wall.  Then  the  blood  that  had  retreated  for  a  moment 
to  his  heart  surged  forth  again  through  his  veins  hotly 
and  he  answered  :  "  Thou  liest !  " 

Chucha  smiled  contemptuously.  "  Ah,  these  men  !  " 
she  said.  "  How  sure  they  always  are  of  the  faithful 
ness  of  their  own  wives !  How  sure  they  always  are  of 
all  other  wives  that  beauty  and  faithlessness  never  fail 
to  go  hand  in  hand !  " 

Pancho  grasped  her  arm  so  strongly  that  she  gave  a 
little  cry  of  pain.  "  Prove  the  truth  of  thy  wicked 
words,  or  I  will  kill  thee ! "  he  said. 

"  What  matter  if  thou  dost  kill  me  ? "  she  answered. 
"  Long  ago  thou  didst  kill  my  love.  But  the  proof  that 
thou  desirest  is  easy  to  give  thee.  Come  with  me." 

Pancho  followed  her  along  the  street,  and  so  into 
the  room  that  she  inhabited  in  a  house  not  a  stone's  cast 
from  his  own.  This  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
the  window  that  opened  upon  the  street  was  protected 
after  the  Mexican  fashion  by  a  heavy  grating  of  iron. 
Having  drawn  close  the  inside  wooden  shutters,  yet  not 
so  close  but  that  there  remained  a  crack  ample  to  spy 
through,  Chucha  beckoned  him  to  the  window.  "  Stand 
here  and  watch,"  she  said.  "Presently  thou  wilt  see 
all  that  thou  needest  to  confirm  my  words." 

Had  not  the  whole  matter  been  sprung  upon  him 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  1(59 

with  a  suddenness  that  gave  him  no  time  for  reflection, 
Pancho  might  have  thought  twice  before  consenting 
thus  to  act  the  spy  upon  his  own  wife — and  especially 
under  Chucha's  eyes.  As  he  placed  himself  so  that  he 
could  look  out  through  the  crack  in  the  shutters  his 
conscience  twinged  him  because  of  the  part  that  he  was 
playing ;  yet  but  lightly,  for  dread  and  rage  still  filled 
his  heart.  In  a  moment  he  heard  the  door  behind  him 
open  ;  and  as  he  turned  quickly  he  saw  Chucha,  bearing 
a  bundle  on  her  arm,  just  leaving  the  room.  He  had 
not  expected  from  her  such  consideration.  It  would 
have  been  more  in  keeping  with  what  he  believed  to  be 
her  character  had  she  remained  to  exult  over  him  when 
the  proof  that  she  had  promised  should  be  forthcoming 
and  he  should  be  compelled  to  admit  that  her  words 
were  true. 

Dusk  had  fallen  upon  the  city,  but  not  darkness. 
Even  at  a  short  distance,  while  figures  easily  were  dis 
tinguished,  faces  were  blurred  and  not  recognizable. 
For  ten  minutes  Pancho  stood  at  his  post  and  watched 
fruitlessly.  As  he  thus  waited,  inactive,  his  anger 
cooled  and  his  reason  slowly  returned  to  him.  Then 
shame  of  his  traitorous  spying  took  hold  upon  him.  It 
was  a  cruel  wrong  that  lie  was  doing  his  wife,  he  felt, 
thus  to  doubt  her  on  no  surer  ground  than  that  of  the 
lying  Chucha's  word  ;  it  was  both  absurd  and  wicked  to 
doubt  Belita  on  any  ground  at  all — and  as  these  honor 
able  thoughts  framed  themselves  in  his  mind  he  turned 
to  abandon  his  place  at  the  window,  gravely  angry  with 
himself  because  he  had  yielded  to  Chucha's  evil  wishes 
so  easily  and  so  far. 

But  in  the  very  moment  that  he  turned  from  his 


170  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPA1X. 

post  of  observation  he  saw  that  which  irresistibly  drew  his 
eyes  back  again  to  the  crack  in  the  shutters ;  that  made 
a  great  lump  come  up  into  his  throat,  and  that  sent 
through  his  heart  a  chill  and  biting  pain.  At  the  door 
of  his  own  house,  over  there  across  the  street,  stood  a 
shadowy  figure  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak ;  that  it  was 
the  figure  of  a  man,  of  a  gentleman,  was  unmistakable 
because  of  the  broad  hat  surmounted  by  a  waving 
plume. 

The  man  paused  for  a  moment  and  seemed  to  gaze 
f urti  vely  up  and  down  the  street.  Then,  apparently  sat 
isfied  that  the  coast  was  clear,  he  tapped  thrice  lightly 
against  the  door.  The  door  was  not  opened  ;  but  from 
the  position  of  his  head — slightly  bent,  and  closely  ap 
proached  to  the  key-hole — it  was  evident  that  he  was 
carrying  on  a  conversation  with  whoever  was  on  the  other 
side :  and  the  only  person  who  possibly  could  be  on  the 
other  side  of  that  door,  as  the  miserable  Pancho  but  too 
well  knew,  was  his  own  wife !  The  conversation  was  a 
very  short  one  ;  and  then,  greatly  to  Pancho's  astonish 
ment — for  he  had  expected  that  the  affair  would  have  a 
widely  different  ending — the  man  stepped  back,  blew  a 
kiss  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers  toward  the  door,  and  so 
came  away.  He  walked  briskly  down  the  street,  on  its 
opposite  side,  directly  past  the  window  behind  which 
Pancho  stood.  His  head  was  bowed  a  little,  so  that  the 
brim  of  his  hat  concealed  his  face.  He  was  a  small 
man,  wearing  a  long,  gray  cloak,  and  a  brown  hat  in 
which  was  a  green  plume. 

Pancho  made  but  two  bounds  from  the  window  to 
the  door.  His  only  thought  was  of  hot  pursuit  and 
bloody  vengeance.  He  raised  the  latch,  but  the  door 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  171 

would  not  open — it  was  locked  !  The  iron  grating  of 
the  window  was  as  strong  as  the  grating  of  a  jail.  He 
let  loose  a  tornado  of  curses  as  he  realized  the  trick 
that  Clmcha  had  put  upon  him  in  leaving  him  thus  a 
prisoner,  and  in  his  raving  rage  he  beat  against  the 
door  with  his  feet  and  fists — and  made  no  more  im 
pression  against  its  solid  timbers  than  he  would  have 
made  by  beating  against  a  wall  of  stone.  At  last,  his 
rage  having  a  little  spent  itself  in  his  furious  violence, 
he  resigned  himself  to  awaiting  Chucha's  return.  What 
he  would  do,  the  moment  that  he  was  set  free,  was 
perfectly  clear  to  him  :  he  would  walk  across  the  street 
and  kill  his  wife.  Later,  perhaps,  he  might  be  fortu 
nate  enough  to  find  her  lover  and  kill  him  also. 

After  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  very  long  while, 
the  door  opened  and  Clmcha  entered. 

"  Well,"  she  asked,  "  what  hast  thou  seen  ?  " 

Pancho  was  silent. 

"  Did  her  lover  come — the  little  gentleman  of  the 
court,  with  a  brown  hat  and  a  green  feather  ?  " 

"  Then  thou  also  didst  see  him  ?  " 

"I?  I  have  seen  nothing  —  nothing,  that  is,  to 
night,  P>ut  I  have  seen  much  on  other  nights — it  is 
an  old  affair,  thou  stupid  one.  Tell  me  what  thou  didst 
see  ?  " 

When  he  had  told  her,  stumbling  in  his  words  and 
freighting  them  with  a  load  of  heavy  curses,  she  an 
swered  slowly  and  reflectively  :  "  Yes,  it  sometimes 
happens  in  this  way.  lie  comes  ;  says  a  word  or  two 
to  her  through  the  closed  door ;  blows  a  kiss  of  fare 
well  toward  her,  and  then  away  he  goes.  I  do  not 
understand  it,  but  so  it  is.  These  gentlemen  of  the 


172  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

court  have  customs  of  their  own.  But  it  is  seldom 
that  he  thus  leaves  her.  Usually  the  door  opens  when 
he  taps.  It  is  far  in  the  night  when  he  departs. 

For  answer,  Pancho  ground  his  teeth. 

"  Thou  poor  Pancho ! "  she  continued,  and  in  her 
tone  there  was  a  touch  of  very  genuine  tenderness.  "  It 
is  cruel  that  such  a  wife  as  this  shouldst  have  been  given 
thee,  when  thou  mightst  have  had  one  who  would  have 
loved  thee  truly  and  faithfully  all  thy  life  long.  Even 
yet,  Pancho — "  She  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him. 
There  could  be  no  mistaking  the  meaning  that  was  in 
Chucha's  eyes. 

As  she  moved  a  step  toward  him  he  turned  abruptly 
from  her  and  placed  his  hand  upon  the  latch.  "  Talk 
not  to  me  of  faithful  love  of  woman  ! "  he  cried.  "  Since 
thou  hast  proved  to  me  that  Belita  is  false,  I  know  that 
not  one  woman  in  all  the  world  is  true.  Now  I  am  go 
ing  over  there  to  kill  her.  Be  thankful  that  first  I  do 
not  kill  thee.  Death  is  what  thou  deservest  because  of 
thy  black  heart !  "  He  spoke  very  calmly ;  but  it  was 
the  calmness  of  a  glowing  rage. 

Chucha  also  spoke  calmly.  "  It  is  well  enough  to 
kill  Belita,"  she  said;  "but  if  thou  shouldst  kill  her 
now,  her  lover  will  escape  thy  vengeance.  Let  her  live 
on  to  lure  him  back  again,  so  that  thy  work  may  be 
complete.  Wait  until  another  night  shall  bring  him  to 
her  door  ;  and  then,  when  he  has  entered,  follow  thou 
and  kill  them  both  !  " 

Pancho  stood  for  some  instants  silent  and  irresolute. 
Then,  as  he  turned  toward  the  door  again,  he  said,  slow 
ly,  but  with  a  bitter  earnestness  :  "  Thou  daughter  of 
the  devil,  I  shall  take  thy  counsel ! " 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  1Y3 

She  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  liim.  "  Wilt  thou 
not  kiss  me,  Pancho — only  one  little  kiss — before  thou 
goest  ? " 

He  thrust  her  aside  savagely.  "  To  hell  with  thee, 
where  thou  belongest — and  may  I  never  set  eyes  on  thee 
again  until  my  meeting  with  thee  there  shall  be  a  part 
of  my  punishment  for  the  sin  that,  because  of  thee,  1 
shall  do  !  "  He  tore  the  door  open,  and  so  was  gone. 

IY. 

ISTo  wonder  was  it,  then,  as  Pancho  stood  his  watch  in 
the  deserted  streets  that  strange  June  night  so  full  of 
evil  and  of  dread,  that  Heaven's  grace  seemed  hopelessly 
far  away  from  him  ;  that  he  was  defiant  of  the  powers 
of  darkness  because  already  they  had  done  their  worst. 
Welcome  to  him,  he  thought,  would  be  the  icy  breath  of 
La  Llorona  bringing  the  chill  pain  of  death ;  welcome 
even  would  be  the  gaunt  specter  of  Don  Juan  Manuel, 
killing  with  that  nameless  horror  whereof  only  awful 
hints  were  given  in  wide-open  and  distraught  dead  eyes. 

Yet  in  truth — because  the  natural  body  of  man  cher 
ishes  the  life  that  is  in  it  even  while  that  life  longs  only 
to  be  quit  of  its  load  of  earthly  flesh — a  shiver  ran 
through  Pancho's  frame  as  a  voice  sounded  suddenly  in 
his  ears,  and,  turning  quickly,  he  saw  a  man  standing  at 
his  side.  Whence  this  man  had  conic  he  could  not  tell. 
Save  a  low  growl  of  thunder  that  had  followed  close 
upon  a  livid  Hash  in  the  cloud-bank  above  the  hills  of  Te- 
peyac,  he  had  heard  no  sound  until  this  voice  demanded  : 
"  What  is  the  hour  of  the  night  ?  "  At  the  same  instant 
there  came  faintly  through  the  warm,  moist  air  the  mid- 


STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

night  cliiming  of  the  clock  upon  the  Palace ;  and  with 
this,  in  yet  fainter  tones,  the  cliiming  of  the  clock  in  the 
distant  Calle  de  Reloj. 

Pancho's  fear,  born  of  his  body,  lasted  only  for  a 
moment.  Then  his  strong  spirit,  made  desperate  by  its 
burden  of  hopeless  sorrow,  asserted  its  full  strength. 
Drawing  himself  up  as  though  on  parade,  he  answered 
firmly  :  "  It  is  midnight,  Don  Juan  Manuel — when  thou, 
with  others  like  thee  of  the  damned,  art  loosed  from 
hell  !  Xow  thou  seest  that  I  fear  not  to  tell  thee  the 
hour  of  my  death.  Kill  me  quickly  ;  but  know  that  for 
once  thou  hast  failed  in  thy  devil-sent  mission — because 
for  me  life  is  all  sorrow  and  death  is  joy ! " 

That  which  Pancho  expected  instantly — that  strange 
sensation,  whatever  it  may  be,  wrhich  marks  the  change 
when  mortals  put  on  immortality — did  not  come  to  him. 
]STor  did  Don  Juan  Manuel  (there  was  no  room  for 
doubting  that  this  was  Don  Juan  Manuel)  immediately 
make  answer  to  his  desperate  deliverance.  In  the  pause 
that  followed  there  was  a  brighter  flash  of  lightning  in 
the  sky  directly  above  them,  followed  by  a  crash  of 
thunder  that  shook  the  ground  beneath  their  feet.  A 
few  great  drops  of  rain  fell :  heralding  the  advance  of 
the  deluge  that  was  sweeping  toward  them  with  a  hiss 
ing  sound,  as  though  winged  serpents  battled  in  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  night.  Don  Juan  Manuel  pulled 
down  over  his  brow  the  broad  brim  of  his  plumed  hat, 
and  buried  his  face  still  more  deeply  in  the  mufflings  of 
his  cloak.  His  head  was  bowed  a  little,  and  his  form 
relaxed,  as  though  he  pondered  some  deep  thought. 
When  the  gush  of  rain  burst  upon  them  he  gave  no  sign 
of  heeding  it,  save  to  draw  a  long  breath,  as  though  of 


A  MEXICAN  NIGIIT.  175 

satisfaction  :  a  not  unnatural  feeling,  Panclio  thought, 
in  the  case  of  one  corning  from  the  blazing  region  where 
lie  belonged — and  half  expected  to  see  the  rain-drops 
leap  away  from  him  in  steam. 

At  last  Don  Juan  Manuel  raised  his  head  and  spoke. 
"  My  son,"  he  said — and  then  a  great  crash  of  thunder 
drowned  his  words.  As  the  peal  died  away  in  rumbling 
reverberations  among  the  clouds  he  went  on,  as  calmly 
as  though  no  interruption  had  occurred — "  I  am  not 
wholly  a  thing  of  evil.  Remember  the  love  that  was  in 
my  heart  for  the  nephew  whom  I  was  constrained  to 
kill.  Remember  the  penance  that  I  did,  whereby  was 
partly  purged  my  soul.  There  still  is  left  to  me  the 
power  to  sympathize  in  human  sorrow.  Tell  me  of  this 
sharp  grief  of  thine  that,  in  the  very  bloom  and  morn 
ing  of  thy  life,  makes  thee  cry  longingly  for  death." 

There  was  another  fierce  gleam  of  lightning  and 
furious  crash  of  thunder  as  Don  Juan  Manuel  ended 
this  strange  address.  The  rain  poured  down  as  though 
whole  oceans  had  been  caught  up  and  loosed  above 
them  in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  inky  sky.  Beneath 
their  feet  the  solid  earth  trembled.  The  very  elements 
seemed  to  be  dissolving  into  space  before  a  mighty  and 
a  roaring  wind. 

The  fury  and  the  wonder  and  the  horror  of  it  all 
half  turned  Pancho's  brain.  He  laughed  aloud.  "  Truly, 
Senor  Devil  Don  Juan  Manuel,"  he  cried,  "  I  will  tell 
thee,  and  gladly.  Why  should  I  not?  It  is  but  telling 
thee  a  little  sooner  the  story  that  thou  wilt  hear  when  I 
go  down,  as  soon  I  must,  red-handed  to  join  thee  in 
thy  home  in  hell.  Thou  seemest,  in  thy  way,  to  be  a 
kindly  devil.  Listen,  then,  and  know  once  more — for 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

many  such  tales  must  thou  have  heard  from  the  souls  of 
men  in  torment  midst  thy  endless  fires — what  crimes 
are  done  when  faith  is  turned  to  faithlessness  and 
righteous  hate  avenges  outraged  love." 

And  then — his  soul  racked  with  agony  as  his  grief 
grew  yet  more  poignant  by  taking  firmer  shape  in 
words,  in  the  crash  of  dashing  rain  and  volleying 
thunder,  beneath  a  sky  that  seemed  aflame  with  all  the 
fires  of  hell — Pancho  told  to  Don  Juan  Manuel  the 
whole  of  his  miserable  story,  from  the  joy  of  its  begin 
ning  to  the  bitter,  deadly  sorrow  of  its  despairing  end. 

Not  one  detail  did  he  spare  himself.  All  the  glad 
hopes  which  had  filled  his  soul  were  set  forth :  of  his 
promotion  to  be  a  sergeant ;  of  the  little  house  with  the 
garden  ;  of  his  life  of  happiness  in  that  little  kingdom 
where  Belita  would  be  queen.  And  then  he  told  of 
the  black  woe  that  had  come  to  him  in  Chucha's 
spoken  words ;  in  what  from  Chucha's  window,  with 
his  own  eyes,  he  had  seen. 

Had  he  been  Chucha's  lover  ?  Don  Juan  inter 
rupted.  Yes,  in  a  way,  he  answered^  and  told  shortly 
what  his  light  love-making  had  been,  and  how  she  had 
sought,  in  the  very  midst  of  his  sorrow,  to  win  his  love 
again  by  her  bold  looks  and  words. 

And  then  he  added,  in  words  which  showed  how 
fiercely  in  his  heart  burned  the  strong  fire  of  deadly 
hate,  that  Belita — and,  if  luck  served  him,  her  lover 
also — would  die  that  coming  night  by  his  avenging 
hand.  "And  so  it  will  be,  Sefior  Devil  Don  Juan 
Manuel,"  he  cried  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  "  that  because 
of  the  sin  to'  which  this  wicked  woman  drives  me  I  am 
doomed  to  join  thee  presently  in  hell,  and  to  dwell  with 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  177 

thee  there  forever  among  the  damned  !  "  And  as  lie 
thus  spoke,  Pancho  buried  his  face  within  his  hands  and 
groaned  aloud. 

Another  vast  roar  of  thunder  went  hurtling  through 
the  heavens  ;  and  as  Pancho  started  and  raised  his  head 
again,  a  strange  thrill  of  dread  and  wonder  went  through 
him :  he  was  utterly  alone  !  Up  and  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  street,  bright  as  day  with  the  constant 
flashing  of  the  lightning,  was  only  emptiness.  The 
devil  had  called  home  his  own  :  Don  Juan  Manuel  had 
vanished  into  thin  air. 


V. 

SLOWLY  the  savage  storm  died  away  into  the  black 
cloud-bank  above  the  hills  of  Tepeyac,  and  thence  was 
carried  northward  beyond  the  mountain  girdle  of  the 
valley  before  the  soft  south  wind.  Over  in  the  east 
the  brightening  sky  brought  into  sharp  relief  the  dark 
outlines  of  the  great  volcanoes  ;  the  sharp  pinnacle  of 
Popocatepetl  and  the  shrouded  figure  of  Ixtaccihuatl — 
the  dead  White  Woman  wrapped  in  eternal  snow.  The 
wind  from  the  southward  freshened,  and  a  brisk  life 
came  into  it.  A  richer,  stronger  light  came  into  the 
pale  sky  beyond  the  mountains.  The  shadows  below 
grew  thin  and  opalescent.  At  last  the  sun  sprang  with 
a  bound  above  the  crests  of  the  volcanoes,  and  over  the 
whole  beautiful  valley  shone  the  sparkling,  resplendent 
glory  of  a  new-born  tropical  day. 

Just  before  this  brilliant  burst  of  sunlight  came — 
worn  and  weary  with  the  long  strain  of  tense  excite 
ment — Pancho  had  lost  track  of  his  troubles  for  a  mo- 
12 


178  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ment,  as  he  leaned  against  a  doorway,  in  the  forgetful- 
ness  of  sleep.  It  was  only  for  a  moment,  literally,  that 
his  slumber  lasted ;  but  with  the  sense  of  waking  ca.me 
uncertainty  as  to  how  long  he  had  slept — and  then  the 
hope  that  perhaps  the  bitter  sorrow  and  the  unholy 
prodigies  of  the  past  night  were  but  the  unsubstantial 
creations  of  a  dream.  Yet  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that 
this  solution  could  be  possible.  The  pain  of  his  sorrow 
pressed  upon  him  too  heavily,  the  events  of  the  past 
night  were  too  clearly  defined  in  his  memory,  for  either 
the  one  or  the  other  to  be  unreal.  But  he  could  not 
be  certain.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  him  to  be  very 
vague  and  shadowy  and  far  away.  Before  his  eyes 
danced  little  points  of  light.  His  head  was  swimming. 
In  his  ears  were  odd,  buzzing  noises,  and  the  tinkling 
as  of  many  little  bells. 

Presently  the  relief  came  up.  "With  his  wits  still 
hopelessly  askew,  he  fell  in  with  the  other  men  going 
off  duty  in  its  rear.  The  rhythmic  beat  of  the  foot 
steps,  with  which  his  own  kept  time,  made  in  his  mind 
a  cadenced  measure  that  resolved  the  tinkling  in  his 
ears  into  the  slow  and  mournful  ringing  of  a  single 
bell.  Then  he  realized  that  a  bell  truly  was  ringing ; 
and  heard  a  voice — that  seemed  to  come  from  a  long 
way  off,  but  that  he  knew  was  the  voice  of  the  man 
next  him  in  the  ranks — say  that  it  was  the  Penitents' 
Bell  of  Santo  Domingo,  tolling  while  the  convicts  to  be 
sent  in  the  galleon  to  the  Filipinas  were  formed  for 
their  dismal  march  to  Acapulco,  whence  they  would  put 
to  sea. 

Still  with  his  mind  in  curious  confusion,  he  entered 
the  watch-house  and  stood  in  the  line  that  was  formed 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  179 

in  the  patio  to  answer  to  the  roll-call  before  being  dis 
missed.  With  a  dull  surprise,  he  perceived  that  the 
Commandant  of  the  City  Watch  and  the  Captain  of  his 
quarter  stood  beside  the  lieutenant  on  duty,  and  that 
with  these  dignitaries  there  was  also  an  Alcalde  of  the 
court.  The  presence  of  the  Captain  at  that  early  hour 
of  the  day  was  astonishing ;  the  presence  of  the  Com 
mandant  and  the  Alcalde  was  nothing  short  of  a  prodigy. 

The  roll  was  called,  but  the  men  were  not  dismissed. 
The  Commandant,  the  Captain,  and  the  Alcalde  whis 
pered  together.  Their  conversation  seemed  to  be  of 
an  agreeable  nature,  for  as  they  whispered  they  smiled. 
Presently  the  lieutenant  faced  toward  the  line  of  men 
and  gave  the  order  :  "  dumber  Five,  attention  !  Two 
paces  to  the  front,  march !  " 

This  was  Pancho's  number.  Mechanically  he  recog 
nized  it ;  stepped  two  paces  to  the  front ;  came  to  a 
halt,  and  saluted.  In  a  confused  way  he  concluded  that 
trouble  was  in  store  for  him.  Undoubtedly,  lie  thought, 
he  had  slumbered  long  that  morning  on  his  post ;  some 
one  had  reported  him  ;  now  he  was  to  be  punished.  But 
his  dread  of  punishment  was  forgotten  for  a  moment 
as  came  to  him  again  the  hope  that  perhaps  the  whole 
series  of  torments  of  the  past  night  was  but  a  dream. 
And  again,  as  he  tried  to  grasp  it,  did  this  hope  vanish 
away.  The  memory  of  what  he  had  seen  from  Chucha's 
window  was  far  too  vivid  a  memory  to  be  based  only 
upon  the  unsubstantial  fabric  whereof  dreams  are  made. 
He  knew  that  the  small  man  wearing  a  gray  cloak  and 
a  brown  hat  in  which  was  a  green  plume,  the  man  who 
had  tapped  at  Belita's  door,  was  not  a  vision  but  a  re 
ality.  Therefore  his  sorrow  closed  over  him  again,  and 


180  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

he  waited  stolidly  for  the  coming  reprimand — the  first 
reprimand  that  ever  he  had  received. 

But  it  was  not  in  a  tone  of  reprimand  that  the  Com 
mandant  addressed  him,  and  most  extraordinary  were 
the  terms  and  titles  which  this  great  personage  em 
ployed.  "  Sefior  Don  Francisco  Brazo,"  he  said, 
"  knowledge  of  your  faithful  service  has  come  to  the 
ears  of  his  Excellency  the  Viceroy.  Your  deserts — 

But  Pancho  was  so  dizzied  by  hearing  himself  styled 
"  Sefior  Don,"  and  by  the  use  toward  him  on  the  part 
of  this  great  dignitary  of  the  formal  and  stately  "  you," 
that  for  some  moments  the  Commandant's  words  fell  on 
his  ears  only  as  empty  sounds.  Their  sense  grew  clear 
again  only  in  time  for  him  to  hear  the  last  of  them : 
which  were  freighted  with  an  import  so  wonderful  as 
fairly  to  take  away  his  breath. 

"  — his  desire  to  reward  you.  Therefore  I  am 
charged  to  present  you  with  this  commission  that  makes 
you  a  Captain  in  the  Palace  Guards.  I  felicitate  you, 
Captain  Brazo,  because  I  myself  know  that  you  deserve 
your  good  luck."  And  then  the  Commandant — actually 
the  Commandant — stepped  forward  to  where  Pancho 
stood  and  shook  him  by  the  hand ! 

"  You  have  my  good  wishes  also,  comrade,"  said 
Pancho's  late  captain — and  thereupon  embraced  him, 
while  the  patio  rang  with  the  vivas  of  the  watchmen 
standing  in  line. 

"You  will  report  at  noon  to-day  at  the  Palace 
guard-room,  Captain  Brazo,"  said  the  Commandant. 
"  Until  that  hour  you  are  relieved  from  duty." 

"  One  moment,  Captain  Brazo."  It  was  the  Al 
calde  who  spoke.  "  I  also  have  something  for  you 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  181 

tliat  his  Excellency  sends.  Here  is  the  deed  that 
makes  you  the  owner  of  a  certain  property — &  little 
house  with  a  garden  around  it — on  the  Calzada  de  la 
Piedad.  The  property  is  somewhat  out  of  repair.  His 
Excellency,  who  desires  that  the  officers  of  his  Palace 
Guards  shall  be  well  housed,  sends  you  this  purse  that 
he  trusts  you  will  employ  in  the  reparation  of  the 
house  and  grounds." 

Pancho  had  made  no  answer  to  the  Commandant. 
Neither  did  he  make  answer  to  the  Alcalde.  He  stood 
as  one  dazed— with  no  certain  feeling  in  his  troubled 

o 

soul  save  a  bitter  sorrow  because  what  should  have  been 
the  crowning  of  his  happiness  had  come  only  to  be  the 
crowning  of  his  hopeless  grief.  Verily,  Dead  Sea 
fruit  was  this  which  was  given  him.  What  good  was 
there  in  his  astonishing  promotion,  and  in  the  still 
more  astonishing  gift  of  the  little  house,  when  his 
greater  rank  would  but  set  more  tongues  to  wagging 
about  his  dishonor,  and  when  the  home  that  he  had 
longed  for  must  now  and  always  be  cold  and  desolate  ? 

As  he  turned  to  leave  the  watch-house,  going  he 
knew  not  where,  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead  as 
one  whose  head  is  swimming  ;  and  in  his  walk  he  stag 
gered  so  heavily  that  he  would  have  fallen  had  not  the 
Alcalde  stepped  forward  quickly  and  grasped  him  by 
the  arm. 

"  Lean  upon  me,  Seflor  Captain,  and  let  us  walk  to 
gether.  A  turn  in  the  morning  air  will  refresh  and 
strengthen  you.  Moreover,  still  another  of  his  Excel 
lency's  orders  remains  to  be  executed  before  you  will  be 
free  to  go  to  your  good  wife,  the  beautiful  Dona  Belita, 
to  tell  her  the  good  news." 


182  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

For  answer,  Pancho  only  groaned  aloud.  In  his  sor 
row,  the  thought  did  not  occur  to  him  how  strange  it 
was  that  this  Alcalde,  whom  he  never  before  had  laid 
eyes  upon,  should  know  that  his  wife  was  beautiful  and 
should  know  also  her  name ! 

The  Alcalde  stepped  out  at  a  good  pace,  and,  as  the 
exercise  of  brisk  walking  set  Pancho's  blood  astir  again 
in  his  veins,  and  as  the  cool  morning  air  refreshed  his 
feverish  body,  he  found  that  there  were  fewer  cobwebs 
in  his  brain.  But  as  his  mind  grew  clearer  his  sorrow 
became  more  searching.  He  wondered  what  was  this 
other  order  of  the  Viceroy's  wliich  remained  to  be  exe 
cuted,  and  whither  the  Alcalde  was  leading  him — yet 
cared  little  :  being  only  thankful  for  any  delay  that 
gave  him  a  respite  from  returning  to  what  had  been 
his  home. 

Together  they  walked  on  to  the  Plaza  Mayor ;  passed 
the  Parian  and  the  cathedral,  and  so  northward  to  the 
Plazuela  de  Santo  Domingo.  Around  the  outer  edges  of 
this  Plazuela  a  great  crowd  was  gathered,  chattering 
noisily ;  and  above  the  noise  of  talking  sounded  now 
and  then  the  tapping  of  drums.  At  a  sign  from  the 
Alcalde  two  guards,  who  seemed  to  have  been  in  wait 
ing  for  him  beside  the  chapel  of  the  Espiritu  Santo, 
made  a  way  through  the  crowd  along  which  he  and 
Pancho  passed  to  the  open  Plazuela  beyond.  Here  the 
convicts  for  the  Filipinas  were  assembled,  surrounded 
by  a  strong  detachment  of  guards.  A  little  apart  from 
the  convicts  stood  a  group  of  officers ;  in  the  midst  of 
which,  to  judge  from  the  respectful  manner  in  which 
they  left  an  open  space  around  him,  was  one  officer  of 
very  high  rank. 


A  MEXICAN  NIGHT.  183 

As  Panclio  realized  where  the  Alcalde  had  brought 
him,  the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that  all  that 
had  passed  at  the  watch-house  had  been  only  a  dismal 
comedy,  devised  by  the  Viceroy  in  order  to  make  more 
stinging  the  punishment  that  he  was  to  receive  for  sleep 
ing  while  on  watch  ;  that  now,  in  truth,  he  really  was  to 
be  punished  by  being  sent  over-seas  to  the  Filipinas  for 
the  remainder  of  his  miserable  days.  In  all  this  there 
was  nothing  in  the  least  degree  improbable ;  rather 
was  it  entirely  in  keeping  with  the  Viceroy's  manners 
and  ways.  The  extraordinary  eccentricities  of  the 
Conde  de  lievillagigedo  were  as  notorious  as  was  the 
knowledge  of  the  marvelous  celeritv  with  which  he 

O  *J 

contrived  to  become  acquainted  with  the  doings  of  the 
humblest  of  his  subjects,  and  the  still  more  marvelous 
celerity  with  which — always  in  some  strange  yet  ap 
propriate  mariner  of  his  own  devising — he  rewarded 
merit  or  punished  crime.  For  a  moment  Pancho  was 
staggered  by  the  thought  of  a  life  of  exile ;  and  then 
his  sorrowful  heart  almost  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of 
it.  In  truth,  as  he  perceived,  excepting  only  death,  no 
better  deliverance  could  have  come  to  him. 

These  thoughts  went  through  his  mind  so  quickly 
that  they  were  ended,  and  he  had  come  to  his  desperate 
conclusion,  before  he  had  crossed  the  open  space  be 
tween  the  group  in  the  center  of  the  Plazuela  and  the 
surrounding  crowd.  His  firm  expectation  was  that  he 
would  be  led  to  where  the  convicts  were  standing  and 
assigned  to  a  place  in  their  ranks.  Instead  of  this,  the 
Alcalde  halted  him  at  a  little  distance  from  the  group  of 
officers ;  waved  his  hand,  as  though  giving  a  signal,  and 
at  the  same  moment  said  :  "  The  Senor  Captain  will  see 


184  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

something  interesting  if  he  will  keep  his  eyes  upon  that 
door." 

Pancho  felt  his  head  beginning  to  buzz  again  with 
this  evident  beginning  of  another  in  the  series  of  prodi 
gies  that  were  crowding  upon  him  that  day.  With  a 
feeling  of  dull  wonder  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  door 
toward  which  the  Alcalde  pointed — a  door  in  a  house 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Plazuela,  from  which  the  crowd 
was  kept  back  by  a  double  line  of  soldiers — in  expecta 
tion  that  presently  the  door  would  open  and  that  some 
great  personage,  perhaps  the  Viceroy  himself,  wculd 
come  forth. 

But  what  actually  did  happen  was  quite  different 
from  that  which  Pancho  expected,  and  was  far  more 
surprising.  At  a  word  of  command,  given  by  the  officer 
of  the  escort,  a  man  stepped  out  from  the  ranks  of  the 
convicts  and  went  toward  the  door.  Immediately  behind 
him  walked  a  soldier  with  a  cocked  musket.  He  was  a 
small  man,  wearing  a  long  gray  cloak  and  a  brown  hat 
with  a  green  plume.  Being  come  to  the  door,  the  man 
tapped  upon  it  lightly  three  times  ;  then  leaned  forward, 
and  seemed  to  speak  a  few  words  to  some  one  within ; 
then  stepped  back,  blew  toward  it  a  kiss  from  the  tips 
of  his  fingers,  and  turned  away — the  soldier  with  the 
cocked  musket  all  the  while  standing  by  with  his  finger 
on  the  trigger  of  his  piece. 

At  the  first  sight  that  Pancho  had  of  this  man  he 
gave  a  cry  of  rage,  and  would  have  bounded  forward 
but  for  the  Alcalde's  restraining  grasp.  While  the 
scene  at  the  door  went  on,  his  struggles  were  so  violent 
that  the  officer  of  the  escort  had  to  aid  the  Alcalde  in 
holding  him  fast. 


A  MEXICAN   NIGHT.  185 

"  Be  calm,  Seiior  Captain,"  said  the  Alcalde,  coolly. 
"  Your  desire  to  get  close  to  that  little  gentleman  is  only 
natural,  and  it  shall  be  gratified.  But  it  is  not  neces 
sary  for  you  to  go  to  him ;  he  shall  be  brought  to  you. 
See,  he  is  coming  now." 

Pancho  ceased  his  struggles,  for  he  saw  that  the  man 
really  was  coming  toward  him.  His  head  was  bowed, 

«/  O 

so  that  the  brim  of  his  hat  hid  his  face.  He  moved 
slowly,  and  with  an  evident  reluctance  that  required  to 
overcome  it  an  occasional  word  from  the  soldier  with 
the  cocked  musket,  who  still  marched  close  behind  him. 
In  front  of  Pancho  and  the  Alcalde  he  halted,  his  head 
still  bowed.  In  a  pleasant  voice  the  Alcalde  said  to  him  : 
'•  The  musket  is  loaded.  It  certainly  will  go  off  un 
less  the  Sen  or  obliges  Captain  Brazo  by  looking  him 
in  the  face  !  " 

Slowly  the  bowed  head  was  raised.  In  a  tone  of  ab 
solute  wonder  and  amazement  Pancho  uttered  but  one 
single  word  : 

"  Chucha ! " 

At  that  instant  a  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  a  voice — that  thrilled  through  every  fiber 
of  his  being  as  he  recognized  it — said  to  him  :  "  Xow 
thou  secst,  Pancho,  of  what  poor  stuif  was  made  the 
rage  of  jealousy  that  turned  to  hate  thy  love  for  a  good 
woman ;  that  would  have  urged  thee  on,  but  that  by 
God's  good  grace  I  chanced  to  meet  with  thee,  to  mur 
der  !  Thank  God  and  his  blessed  saints  that  he  who 
came  to  thee  in  the  midst  of  the  storm  last  night  was 
the  Conde  de  Revillagigedo — not,  as  thou  didst  imagine 
in  thy  foolish  and  superstitious  fancy,  the  specter  of 
Don  Juan  Manuel ! " 


186  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

"  March ! "  cried  the  officer  of  the  escort :  and  the 
convicts,  herded  in  by  their  guard  of  soldiers,  started  on 
their  long  journey  westward  to  Acapulco,  where  the 
galleon  lay  ready  to  bear  them  away  forever  far  down 
the  reaches  of  the  western  sea. 

"  March ! "  said  the  Viceroy  to  Paiicho.  "  Go  home 
to  thy  wife,  the  beautiful  Belita.  Tell  her  of  thy  good 
fortune,  which  is  also  hers  ;  but  fail  not  to  tell  her,  too, 
and  humbly,  of  thy  sinful  doubting  of  her  faithfulness. 
Fear  not  that  she  will  refuse  to  pardon  thee — for  the 
saints  in  heaven  are  not  more  long-suffering  in  forgive 
ness  than  is  a  good  woman  who  loves  with  a  pure  and 
constant  love." 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES. 

FOR  a  hundred  years  the  Christian  Spaniards  had 
wrought  evil  in  Christ's  name.  From  their  stronghold 
in  the  town  of  the  Holy  Faith  their  cruel  power  had 
spread  out  over  all  the  valley-lands,  constraining  the 
Pueblo  Indians,  in  the  fear  of  death,  to  grievous  toil 
in  the  mines,  and  to  a  yet  more  grievous  service  in 
the  worship  of  the  Spanish  gods.  And  the  Pueblos,  in 
whose  breasts  hope  scarce  longer  had  a  home,  almost 
had  ceased  to  beg  from  their  own  god  deliverance. 
That  was  a  most  cruel  and  wicked  time. 

And  it  was  in  that  time  that  marvelous  treasure 
flowed  from  a  certain  mine  up  in  the  Sangre  de  Cristo 
Mountains  that  was  called,  because  it  belonged  to  the 
Fathers  whose  monastery  was  at  Santa  Clara,  la  in.ina, 
de  los  Padres.  Of  all  the  many  rich  mines  in  this  sil 
ver-strewn  range,  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers  was  incom 
parably  the  richest.  From  it  came  wealth  so  great  that 
even  the  avarice  of  those  who  fattened  upon  its  kingly 
revenue  was  almost  sated.  And  yet,  as  its  shafts  sank 
deeper,  and  as  its  galleries  penetrated  yet  farther  into 
the  bowels  of  the  mountain,  richer  and  richer  grew  its 
yield.  So  over  all  the  realm  of  Xew  Spain,  and  thence 
across  seas  even  to  the  old  Spanish  country,  the  fame 
of  la  mined  dc  los  Padres  went  abroad. 


188  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

But,  with  the  story  of  its  wondrous  product  of  glit 
tering  silver,  never  a  word  was  told  of  the  bitter 
misery  of  those  who  toiled  in  its  dark  depths — driven 
more  harshly  than  ever  beasts  were  driven,  crushed 
down  by  toil  to  cruel  and  painful  death,  that  the  treas 
ure  might  be  wrung  from  the  rock  and  brought  with 
in  the  reach  of  man.  Nor  was  there  any  sign  in  the 
triumphant  tidings  sent  homeward  of  the  thousands  of 
converts  to  the  Christian  faith  at  what  cost  of  death  to 
hundreds  these  thousands,  through  terror  of  death,  had 
been  won  to  the  service  of  the  Christian  God ;  at 
what  cost  of  rigid,  ruthless  mastership  this  service  was 
maintained. 

So  at  last,  in  that  direful  summer  of  the  year  1680, 
the  wind  that  the  Spaniards  had  sown  for  a  century 
came  up  a  whirlwind  of  flame  and  blood,  sweeping  over 
and  devastating  all  the  land.  Out  from  a  clear  sky 
came  the  storm.  In  a  moment  was  upon  them,  in  its 
terrible  might  and  majesty,  the  pursuing  wrath  of  God. 
Almost  to  a  man  the  dwellers  in  the  outpost  towns — • 
Taos,  Santa  Clara,  San  Yldefonso,  Santa  Cruz — were 
slain.  At  last  even  Santa  Fe  itself  was  abandoned, 
and  the  conquered  masters  fled  pitifully  southward  for 
refuge  from  their  conquering  slaves.  So  was  a  great 
wrong  punished ;  so  at  last  was  justice  done  to  the 
Pueblos,  when  the  God  who  is  God  of  both  pagan  and 
Christian  in  his  pity  gave  them  his  strength. 

Long  years  passed  by  before  the  Spaniards  again 
made  good  their  hold  upon  the  land  ;  and  when  at  last 
their  strength  in  possession  was  restored,  and  the  new 
dwellers  in  the  monastery  at  Santa  Clara  sought  to  re 
open  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers,  out  of  which  those 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  189 

before  them  had  drawn  so  great  a  revenue,  no  trace  of 
the  mine  could  they  anywhere  find  1  That  the  maps 
and  plans  of  it  which  had  been  in  the  monastery 
should  be  gone  was  no  surprising  matter  ;  but  strange 
it  was  that  the  very  mine  itself  should  have  vanished 
from  the  earth !  Seeking  it  diligently,  but  finding  it 
not,  they  came  to  know  that  the  Pueblos,  remembering 
the  horror  of  their  toil  in  former  times,  had  destroyed 
the  trail  leading  up  to  it  among  the  mountains ;  with 
infinite  labor  had  filled  in  the  great  main  shaft,  and 
had  taken  aAvay  all  traces  of  the  \vorkings  from  around 
about  the  shaft's  mouth.  And,  knowing  this,  they 
sought  to  wrest  the  secret  from  them.  Some  were  put 
to  the  torture,  some  were  slain  outright,  that  the  living 
might  be  driven  by  dread  of  a  like  fate  to  tell  where 
the  mine  wras  hid.  But  neither  biting  pain  nor  fear  of 
death  sufficed  to  shake  their  stern  resolve.  Bravely, 
grimly,  in  painful  life  and  in  dying  agony,  they  held 
the  secret  locked  within  their  breasts. 

So  the  years  drifted  by  and  were  marshaled  into 
centuries ;  the  power  of  the  Spaniards  waned  to  a 
shadow  and  vanished  ;  a  new  race  came  in  and  possessed 
what,  in  times  of  old,  had  been  their  possessions  ;  and 
while,  through  these  fleeting  years  and  slow-moving 
centuries,  through  all  this  wreck  and  change,  the  fame 
of  la  mina  de  los  Padres  lived  on  as  a  legend,  the  mine 
itself  never  was  known  of  men. 

In  the  legend  of  it  that  survived,  'twas  said  that 
upon  him  who  should  find  it  again  would  fall  the  curse 
of  the  Pueblos'  god. 

There  is  no    more    beautiful  sight   in   all  the  fair 


190  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

land  that  once  was  the  realm  of  New  Spain  than  the 
view  at  sunset  from  Santa  Clara  looking  westward, 
down  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande.  The  town — a 
score  or  so  of  brown  adobe  houses,  clustered  around 
the  old  church  and  the  now  partly-ruined  monastery — 
stands  upon  a  little  promontory,  the  last  low  wave  of 
the  foot-hills  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo  range.  The 
mountain  ramparts  which  tower  on  each  side  of  the 
valley  go  down  in  grand  perspective  toward  the  west, 
their  peaks  standing  out  blue-gray  against  the  brighter 
blue-gray  of  the  evening  sky.  And  off  toward  the 
dying  sun  the  sky  takes  a  violet  tint,  and  then  a  rose, 
and  then  a  soft,  rich  red,  and  then  a  glowing  crimson  that 
is  flecked  and  spangled  with  a  great  glory  of  flaming 
gold.  Yet  is  the  setting  sun  not  seen,  for,  cutting  off 
sight  of  it  completely,  the  great  castellated  mountain 
of  San  Yldefonso  raises  the  level  lines  of  its  broad 
battlements  darkly,  sharply  against  the  dazzle  of  light 
and  color  beyond.  Leading  downward,  as  though  it 
were  a  glittering  highway  to  this  lordly  castle's  gates, 
the  Rio  Grande  flows  smoothly  between  its  low  banks : 
the  red  and  golden  gleamings  of  the  evening  sky  re 
flected  on  its  rapid  current.  Each  night  there  is  fresh 
joy  in  beholding  anew  this  magnificent  resplendency, 
this  perfect  picture  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God. 

Techita,  sitting  in  a  nook  in  the  bluff  below  the 
walls  of  the  old  monastery,  loved  greatly  to  look  upon 
this  God-given  picture ;  to  watch  its  glory  grow  as 
the  sun  dropped  down  beyond  the  mountain  of  San 
1  kief onso  and  thence  sent  up  rich  colorings  over  all 
the  western  sky  ;  to  watch  its  glory  wane  as  the  sun 
sank  yet  lower  behind  the  far  mountains  beyond,  and 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  191 

the  color-music  slowly  died  away.  And  then,  when 
the  edge  of  night  was  come,  and  gray  darkness  was 
shutting  in  the  west,  and  in  the  east  only  faint,  soft 
colorings  remained,  it  was  her  wTont  to  go  gently  into 
the  shadowy  church,  and  there,  before  the  old  picture 
of  the  sweet  Santa  Clara,  make  her  pure  offering  of 
thankfulness  in  prayer. 

Nor  would  Techita's  thankfulness  be  lessened,  as 
she  walked  slowly  away  from  the  church  in  the  twi 
light,  by  catching  sight  of  Juan  standing  by  the  door 
way  of  his  little  home  in  a  corner  of  the  old  monastery, 
and  by  seeing,  even  in  the  half  darkness,  the  love-light 
shining  in  his  eyes.  Yet  with  her  gladness  that  Juan 
loved  her  would  come  troublous  doubts  into  Techita's 
heart.  For,  down  in  this  old  Mexican  town,  these  two 
were  living  over  the  story  that  is  as  old  as  human  life 
itself,  and  that  ever  is  sorrowfully  new — the  story  of  a 
hopeless  love. 

A  stranger  coming  to  Santa  Clara  —  at  least  a 
stranger  from  the  barbarous  northern  country — would 
have  perceived  no  outward  difference  in  the  estates  of 
old  Pablo,  Techita's  father,  and  of  Techita's  lover,  Juan. 
Such  a  stranger,  supposing  that  he  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  think  anything  about  them  at  all,  would  have  "  sized 
them  up,"  after  the  abrupt,  uncivil  manner  of  Ameri 
canos  generally,  simply  as  a  pair  of  poverty-stricken 
Mexicans  ;  and  he  might  have  gone  a  step  farther,  and 
wondered  how  on  earth  they  managed  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together,  anyway.  But,  so  far  as  old  Pablo  was 
concerned,  this  estimate  would  have  been  very  far 
astray.  In  point  of  fact,  old  Pablo  was  a  rich  man. 
Half  a  mile  of  the  best  land  along  the  river  was  his ; 


192  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

his  also  was  the  great  flock  of  goats  that  every  night  at 
milking-time  came  trooping  homeward  to  the  corral; 
his  also  was  the  great  herd  of  cattle  that  pastured  on 
the  mesa  negra^  half  a  dozen  leagues  away  to  the 
north ;  and  in  his  granaries  was  a  vast  store  of  barley 
and  beans  and  corn. 

And  Juan  had  neither  flocks  nor  herds  nor  lands  ! 
All  his  earthly  possessions  were  the  few  household 
things  in  the  little  home  that  the  Padre,  pitying  him, 
had  suffered  him  to  make  for  himself  in  a  corner  of  the 
old  monastery.  All  his  wealth  was  his  strong  young 
body  and  stout  heart  and  ready  hands. 

Of  a  truth,  this  handsome  Juan  had  been  born  into 
the  world  under  an  unlucky  star.  While  he  was  yet 
a  boy,  the  dreadful  mruelas  had  swept  down  upon 
Santa  Clara,  and  in  a  month's  time  his  father  and  his 
mother,  together  with  half  the  little  town,  were  hud 
dled  into  hastily  dug  graves.  And  he  was  still  a  boy 
when  the  old  aunt  who  had  cared  for  him  died  also,  and 
left  him  to  make  his  fight  for  life  alone.  Then  it  was 
that  the  good  Padre  had  found  for  him  a  home  in  an 
odd  corner  of  the  partly  ruined  monastery,  long  since 
deserted  of  its  old-time  tenants  and  falling  slowly  into 
a  complete  decay.  Here,  for  a  dozen  years  and  more, 
he  had  made  shift  to  live,  helping  the  Padre  in  the 
offices  of  the  church,  herding  goats  in  the  fallow  season 
of  the  year,  and  in  the  growing  season  working  in  the 
fields.  The  Padre,  whose  heart  was  tender,  greatly 
loved  the  lonely  boy ;  and  by  the  Padre's  care  he  had 
become  a  prodigy  of  learning.  Actually,  he  could  read  ! 
And,  still  more  wonderful,  he  could  sign  his  name — and 
make  about  it,  too,  as  brave  a  maze  of  flourishes  as  any 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  193 

Mexican  in  all  the  land !  But  for  all  his  headful  of 
knowledge,  Juan  was  the  poorest  of  the  poor. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  his  love  for  Techita  was 
hopeless.  Pablo  was  a  shrewd  old  fellow,  with  a  keen 
eye — for  all  his  look  of  sleepiness — for  money-holding  ; 
and  that  his  daughter  (who  also  was  his  only  child, 
for  Pablito  and  Pablito's  mother  had  died  together  in 
a  single  day  in  that  dismal  small-pox  time)  should  marry 
a  rich  man  was  the  dearest  purpose  of  his  heart.  Dur 
ing  the  past  year  or  two,  since  Techita  had  begun  to 
blossom  into  womanhood,  the  gossips  of  the  little  town 
had  affirmed  that  the  solemn  old  Don  Jose,  who  owned 
the  great  hacienda  at  Abiqni,  was  the  husband  for 
Techita  whom  old  Pablo  had  in  mind.  But  there  were 
those  who  said— saying  it  beneath  the  breath,  for  Seiior 
Don  Pablo  was  one  whom  it  was  not  well  to  offend — 
that  to  put  such  a  fate  upon  Techita  would  be  a  crime. 
And  others,  still  bolder,  declared  that  Juan  and  Techita, 
the  handsomest  couple  in  all  the  valley's  length,  were 
sent  thus  together  into  the  world  by  the  good  God  that 
they  might  be  man  and  wife.  But  these  whisperings 
never  came  to  old  Pablo's  ears  ;  and,  had  they  come,  he 
would  have  laughed  at  them  as  old  women's  foolish 
ness — so  right  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  daughter 
should  wed  her  wealth  with  greater  wealth  ;  so  absurd 
would  have  seemed  to  him  the  suggestion  that  she 
should  wed  with  such  a  one  as  this  goat-herding,  field- 
working  Juan. 

Therefore  it  was  that  Techita,  knowing  well  and 

dreading  much  her  father's  will  concerning  her,  felt  her 

heart  troubled  within  her  by  knowing  of  the  love  that 

Juan  had  for  her ;  by  knowing  that  her  own  love  was 

13 


194:  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

given  to  Juan  in  return.  And  often,  as  she  knelt  in 
the  church  as  the  daylight  passed  away,  she  prayed  that 
the  gentle  Santa  Clara  would  soften  her  father's  heart, 
so  that  happiness  might  come  to  her  and  to  her  lover. 
But  the  time  went  on,  and  no  change  came  to  open  the 
way  whereon  she  longed  to  go  ;  and  each  passing  month 
now,  as  she  grew  rapidly  into  womanhood,  made  the 
time  more  near  for  her  to  be  the  wife  of  Don  Jose. 

Thus  matters  stood  when  all  the  valley  was  filled 
with  a  sullen  alarm  and  wronder  by  the  incoming  once 
again  of  the  hated  Americanos  from  the  North — this 
time  not  as  an  army  (against  which,  as  at  the  time  of 
their  first  coming,  could  be  had  at  least  the  hot  satis 
faction  of  fighting),  but  as  the  builders  of  a  railroad : 
a  devilish  and  hurtful  contrivance,  concerning  which 
nothing  was  certain,  save  that  it  certainly  was  a  thing 
of  evil  to  be  dreaded  and  abhorred.  And  when,  the 
railroad  being  builded,  all  manner  of  evil  America 
nos —  cut-throats,  desperadoes,  the  advance-guard  of 
rascality  that  pours  into  each  newly  opened  region  of 
the  West — came  down  upon  them,  destroying  the  pleas 
ant  peacefulness  of  their  quiet  land,  their  hatred  of 
their  old-time  enemies  grew  yet  more  bitter  and  in 
tense  ;  the  more  intense  because,  instinctively,  they 
knew  their  own  powerlessness  to  stay  the  incoming 
stream. 

The  wave  that  surged  down  upon  them  was  a  mighty 
one ;  for,  now  that  the  railroad  had  opened  the  way  to 
it,  the  ancient  fame  of  the  treasure-laden  Sangre  de 
Cristo  was  remembered,  and  everywhere  the  mountains 
were  dotted  with  prospectors'  camps.  Once  more  the 
legend  of  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers  was  revived,  and 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  195 

in  many  a  camp  hearts  beat  quicker  and  breath  came 
shorter  as  the  story  of  its  marvelous  riches  was  told 
anew.  Again  it  was  sought  for  with  not  less  eagerness 
and  with  more  skill  than  it  had  been  sought  for  two 
hundred  years  before ;  and  again  was  the  search  fruit 
less.  One  after  another  they  who  sought  for  it  gave 
up  their  search  as  hopeless,  or  were  satisfied  with  mak 
ing  lesser  strikes,  until  only  one  man  remained  to  carry 
on  the  quest.  But  this  man  stuck  grimly  to  the  pur 
pose  that  had  brought  him  southward  from  the 
States. 

Dick  Irving  was  a  person  who  did  what  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  do.  Up  in  Pueblo — the  Colorado  town 
in  the  Arkansas  Valley — he  had  come  across  a  trooper 
of  Price's  old  command,  who  had  fought  his  way  down 
from  Taos  to  Santa  Fe  in  18-iT;  and  who,  the  fight 
ing  ended,  had  married  a  Mexican  wife  and  had  settled 
himself  for  life  in  the  land  that  he  had  helped  to  win. 
There  are  not  a  few  of  these  bits  of  army  drift  scat 
tered  over  the  country  north  of  Santa  Fe.  And  this 
old  soldier  told  so  glowing  a  story  of  la  mina  de  los 
Padres  that  Irving  forthwith  sold  out  his  interest  in 
the  "  Rattling  Meg,"  up  at  Lcadville,  and  in  a  week's 
time  was  down  in  the  Sangre  de  Cristo  with  his  pro 
specting  outfit,  and  at  work. 

u  I'll  find  that  mine  or  I'll  die  for  it ! "  he  told  his 
Leadville  partner  before  he  left  for  the  south  ;  and  he 
added,  his  hand  resting  easily  on  the  butt  of  his  re 
volver  :  "  If  any  man  is  ahead  of  me,  by  -  -  I'll 
shoot  him  and  jump  his  claim  !  " 

In  matters  of  this  nature  Dick  Irving  was  a  man 
who  kept  his  word. 


196  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Tecliita  sat  in  lier  nook  under  the  edge  of  the  bluff 
and  watched  the  sun  go  down,  and  very,  very  heavy 
was  her  heart.  At  last  the  stroke  that  she  had  dreaded 
for  so  long  had  fallen :  her  father  had  told  her  that  the 
time  had  come  when  she  must  be  the  wife  of  Don  Jose. 
Nor  would  he  so  much  as  listen  to  her  entreaties  that 
this  might  not  be.  Breaking  in  upon  her  words,  he 
had  said :  "  It  is  my  will " — and  so  had  left  her,  desolate 
of  hope. 

That  night  there  was  no  beauty  for  her  in  the  sun 
set  ;  and  when  the  glory  was  gone  out  of  the  sky  and 
she  went  slowly  through  the  dimness  of  twilight  into 
the  darkness  of  the  church,  bitter  sorrow  was  upon  her 
and  her  eyes  were  weary  with  their  weight  of  tears. 
She  knelt  before  the  picture  of  the  saint,  as  was  her 
habit,  but  from  her  lips  there  came  no  prayer.  What 
was  the  good  of  praying  ?  she  thought.  Had  she  not 
prayed  again  and  again  with  all  the  faith  and  strength 
that  was  in  her  that  she  might  be  spared  that  which 
nowr  had  come  ?  The  saint  was  far  away  in  heaven — 
too  far  to  heed  the  pleadings  of  a  poor,  lonely  child  on 
earth.  Ah  !  would  that  she  were  safe  in  heaven,  too  ! 

And  then,  still  kneeling  upon  the  clay  floor  before 
the  picture  of  the  saint,  she  fell  into  a  dreary  reverie, 
thinking  of  the  lifetime  of  happiness  for  which  she  had 
hoped,  of  the  lifetime  of  sorrow  that  now  she  must 
endure.  Yet,  wrhile  she  knelt  thus,  looking  the  while 
sadly,  steadfastly  upon  the  saint's  sweet  face,  shining 
out  from  the  surrounding  darkness  as  a  gleam  from  the 
sunset's  after-glow  struck  full  upon  it  through  the  little 
window  beneath  the  roof,  she  seemed  to  see  a  look  of 
loving  pity  come  into  the  gentle  eyes,  to  see  upon  the 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  197 

tender  lips  a  pitying  smile ;  and  the  hope  came  to  her 
that  the  saint,  forgiving  her  for  doubting  her  saintly 
power  to  comfort  and  to  aid,  even  yet,  through  the  sav 
ing  strength  of  heavenly  grace,  would  turn  her  mourn 
ing  into  joy.  So  there  came  into  her  troubled  soul  a 
little  thrill  of  happiness. 

"  Techa !  " 

A  quiver  went  over  her,  and  for  a  moment  her  heart 
stopped  beating,  as  the  thought  fell  upon  her  that,  in 
very  truth,  the  saint  had  spoken — and  then  she  knew 
that  the  voice  sounding  low  in  the  darkness  was  the 
voice  of  Juan. 

'•  Techa,  art  thou  here  ?  I  must  speak  with  thee.  I 
have  to  tell  thee  of  a  great  joy." 

She  made  a  little  sound  in  answer,  while  rushing  in 
upon  her  came  the  glad  hope  that  the  promise  given 
her  by  the  saint's  pitying  glance  and  smile  was  coming 
true. 

"  My  Techa,  listen  !  The  good  God  has  had  pity 
for  our  sorrow,  and  the  bar  between  us  is  broken  down. 
A  great  wonder  has  happened  that  has  made  me  richer 
than  thy  father  by  a  thousand-fold  !  By  God's  grace 
I  have  found  again  the  wrondcrful  mine  in  the  mount 
ains  that  belonged  to  the  Fathers  back  in  the  long-past 
time.  I  am  rich,  rich  even  beyond  thought ;  and  richer 
than  all,  because  now  thou  also  wilt  be  mine  !  " 

Then  Juan  told  the  story  of  the  good  fortune  that 
had  come  to  him.  One  corner  of  his  dwelling-place  in 
the  old  monastery — the  corner  in  which  was  the  little 
triangular  fireplace — long  had  been  in  a  ruinous  state 
that  promised  at  any  time  a  fall.  That  day  the  fall  had 
come,  and  from  the  broken  wall  had  dropped  out  a  roll 


198  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

of  tough  hide,  in  which  were  wrapped  securely  the 
lost  plans  of  the  ancient  mine.  Thus  had  they  been 
hidden  by  hands  soon  still  in  death,  on  that  August 
day,  two  hundred  years  before,  when  the  Pueblos  rose 
in  revolt  against  their  Spanish  task -masters  :  the  visible 
agents  of  the  avenging  wrath  of  God. 

Yellow  with  age  were  the  plans,  pale  the  once  black 
drafting,  but  still  the  plotting  was  distinct  and  clear : 
showing  the  site  of  the  monastery ;  showing  the  long- 
lost  trail  leading  up  beyond  the  arroyo  of  San  Pedro 
into  the  mountains ;  showing  the  mine  itself,  a  league 
or  more  away,  at  the  trail's  end.  To  one  knowing  the 
country  well,  as  Juan  did,  everything  was  clear.  Over 
the  mountain-side,  high  up  above  the  canon  wherein 
the  mine  was  sunk,  he  had  driven  his  goats  a  hundred 
times.  There  was  no  uncertainty  about  his  discovery  ; 
la  mina  de  los  Padres  was  found,  and  was  his ! 

"With  a  quickly  beating  heart  Techita  listened  to  this 
wonderful  story  of  good  fortune,  and  as  she  listened  a 
great  gladness  filled  her  soul.  It  was  only  the  wealth 
of  Don  Jose,  she  knew,  that  had  made  him  seem  pleas 
ant  in  her  father's  eyes ;  Juan,  with  his  incomparably 
greater  wealth,  need  have  no  fears  now  that  his  suit 
would  be  rejected.  Happiness  enveloped  her,  for  now 
at  last  her  happiness  was  sure.  In  perfect  thankfulness 
she  knelt  again  before  the  sweet  Santa  Clara's  picture, 
drawing  Juan  also  on  his  knees  beside  her ;  and  there, 
with  grateful  thoughts,  for  their  hearts  were  all  too  full 
for  words,  they  gave  praise  silently  for  the  blessing  of 
mercy  which,  through  Santa  Clara's  intercession,  had 
come  to  them  from  the  merciful  and  loving  God. 

Yet,  even  as  she  thus  knelt,  fear  and  misgiving  came 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  199 

into  Techita's  soul.  Mingled  with  her  Spanish  blood 
\vas  the  blood  of  the  Pueblo  race,  of  the  pagans  whom 
her  Christian  ancestors  had  treated  so  cruelly  in  the 
time  of  old  ;  and  together  with  her  Christian  faith  was, 
i  f  not  faith,  at  least  a  fearful  reverence  for  the  Pueblos' 
god.  In  dread  she  remembered  now,  in  the  under-cur 
rent  of  thought  below  her  thoughts  of  thankfulness  and 
praise,  the  direful  prophecy  that  upon  whomsoever 
should  find  again  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers  the  curse  of 
the  Pueblos'  god  would  fall. 

Standing  outside  the  door  of  the  church,  the  young 
moon,  just  risen  over  the  mountains  in  the  east,  shining 
faintly  down  upon  them,  Techita  falteringly  told  her 
fears;  and  Juan,  full  of  gladness  now  that  his  long 
sorrow  was  at  an  end,  laughed  lightly  and  bade  her  fear 
no  more. 

"  We  are  good  Christians,  my  Techa,"  he  said,  "  and 
our  valiant  God  and  his  brave  saints  watch  over  us. 
What  need  we  fear  from  this  false  god,  who  for  ages 
has  been  dead  and  gone  ? " 

But  as  thus  irreverently  he  spoke,  there  fell  upon 
him  also  a  strange  sense  of  dread  ;  for  he  also  had 
Pueblo  faith  deep  down  in  his  heart,  because  of  the 
Pueblo  blood  which  flowed  in  his  veins.  By  an  effort 
he  stirred  himself  and  drove  the  dread  away.  In  the 
faint  light  Techita  did  not  mark  the  change  that  for  a 
moment  came  over  his  face  as  he  ceased  to  speak,  and 
so  had  comfort  from  his  cheerful  words.  It  was  indeed 
true,  she  thought,  that  the  blessed  saints  were  brave  de 
fenders  against  all  evil  powers ;  and  she  was  well  assured 
now  that  one  of  the  saints  at  least — this  gracious  Santa 
Clara — had  promised  to  them  her  potent  aid.  There- 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

fore  had  she  a  firm  foundation  whereon  to  rest  her  faith 
and  hope.  Yet,  as  she  walked  slowly  homeward,  vague 
forebodings  of  sorrow  forced  themselves  upon  her ; 
nor  could  she,  with  all  her  faith  in  Santa  Clara's  help 
fulness,  with  all  her  bright  hopes  of  the  happiness  that 
was  to  corne,  wholly  drive  these  dark  thoughts  away. 

Dick  Irving  was  puzzled.  He  believed,  and  with 
good  reason,  that  what  he  did  not  know  about  prospect 
ing  was  not  worth  the  finding  out.  And  yet  it  was  a 
point  in  prospecting  that  was  puzzling  him  now,  and, 
to  use  his  own  words,  puzzling  him  the  worst  kind. 

The  knotty  question  that  was  too  much  for  him  was 
where  a  piece  of  "  float "  came  from  that  he  had  found 
in  the  arroyo  of  San  Pedro.  When  he  had  found  that 
particular  piece  of  loose  rock,  it  had  made  his  heart 
jump  and  his  mouth  water.  In  the  course  of  his  ex 
tended  experience  in  prospecting,  he  never  had  come 
across  anything  that  for  richness  came  anywhere  near 
it ;  it  was  richer  than  the  best  of  the  Leadville  carbon 
ates,  richer  than  the  best  of  the  ruby  silver  down  in  the 
Gunnison.  On  a  rough  calculation,  he  concluded  that 
the  vein  where  it  came  from  would  mill-run  not  less 
than  a  thousand  ounces.  If  the  vein  had  any  body  to 
it,  that  meant  more  millions  than  he  could  think  of  at 
once  without  shivering. 

But  the  trouble  was  that  the  beginning  of  his  pro 
digious  find  was  also  the  end  of  it.  The  bit  of  float 
was  like  the  footprint  on  Robinson  Crusoe's  island  ; 
there  it  was,  solitary — not  a  sign  to  tell  whence  it  came 
or  to  what  it  belonged.  He  had  spent  nearly  a  month 
in  the  arroyo,  turning  over  carefully  every  stone  and 


LA  MINA  DE   LOS  PADRES.  201 

running  his  knowing  eyes  jealously  along  every  crevice 
in  its  rocky  walls.  Not  another  scrap  of  the  float 
could  he  find.  And  now  his  mad  was  getting  up.  His 
reputation  as  a  prospector  was  at  stake.  More  than 
this,  he  knew  that  close  at  hand,  on  the  flanks  of  one 
of  the  two  mountains  which  towered  above  him,  was 
a  mine  which  to  find  was  to  make  his  everlasting  for 
tune  ;  which  to  miss  was  to  miss  the  great  chance  of  his 
life — and  the  pleasing  conviction  was  growing  upon 
him  more  strongly  every  day  that  he  was  going  to 
miss  it. 

He  knew,  of  course,  that  almost  his  only  chance  was 
to  follow  up  the  float ;  and  that  was  the  reason  why  he 
had  put  in  such  thorough  work  upon  the  arroyo.  When 
this  failed  him  he  took  to  the  mountains  themselves. 
It  was  a  desperate  chance,  but  it  was  the  only  chance 
left  to  him.  He  put  in  another  barren  month  in  this 
fashion,  and  then  lie  Avas  about  ready  to  own  himself 
beaten  ;  to  own  that  for  once  he  had  walked  all  around 
and  all  over  the  mine  that  lie  was  looking  for  without 
being  able  to  make  even  a  good  guess  as  to  where  it 
was.  Once,  indeed,  for  a  moment  he  had  felt  hopeful. 
In  a  little  canon,  hard  to  enter  because  of  a  great  wall 
formed  across  its  mouth  by  jagged  masses  of  rock  which 
had  fallen  from  the  cliffs  above,  he  came  upon  some 
surface  rock  that  was  identical  with  the  bit  of  float  that 
he  had  found.  The  ledge  was  oddly  broken  about  its 
middle  by  a  heap  of  gray,  weather-worn  fragments  of 
stone.  He  never  had  come  upon  a  formation  like  this, 
and  had  he  been  a  geologist  he  would  have  found  a 
good  deal  in  it  to  interest  him.  Being  simply  a  pro- 
gpector,  he  examined  the  ledge  purely  with  an  eye  to 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW   SPAIN. 

business ;  and  from  this  point  of  view  it  was  eminently 
unsatisfactory.  There  were,  to  be  sure,  traces  of  min 
eral,  but  not  the  least  suggestion  of  the  inexhaustible 
wealth  that  he  knew  must  be  in  the  rock  to  which  his 
specimen  belonged.  Therefore  he  kicked  the  ledge 
contemptuously,  swore  at  his  own  ill  luck  and  stupidity 
with  the  mellow  fluency  that  can  be  acquired  only  by 
long  residence  in  mining  camps,  and  so  turned  sullenly 
away. 

It  would  have  strengthened  Dick  Irving's  fast-less 
ening  faith  in  his  own  instinct  as  a  prospector,  however, 
had  he  known  that  it  was  the  art  of  man  and  not  a 
freak  of  Nature  that  was  leading  him  astray ;  had  he 
known  that  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  cursing 
his  own  stupidity  la  mina  de  los  Padres  was  beneath 
his  feet !  Had  he  but  tossed  aside  the  piece  of  rock 
whereon  he  stood,  he  would  have  found — wasted  by 
rust,  but  still  recognizable — an  old  hammer-head  from 
which  the  handle  long  since  had  mouldered  away ;  and 
so  would  have  had  proof  enough  that  he  had  found 
the  rich  prize  that  he  had  sworn  to  find  when  he  came 
down  into  the  South. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  that  on  which  Juan 
had  told  Techita  of  his  great  discovery,  he  came  to  her 
again  in  the  church  to  tell  her  that  all  had  gone  well 
with  him  in  his  search  in  the  mountains,  and  that  in 
very  truth  he  had  found  the  long-lost  mine.  In  glad 
proof  of  his  words  he  showed  her  a  rusty  hammer-head 
that  he  had  pulled  out  from  beneath  a  rock  in  the 
mouth  of  the  filled-in  shaft  —  the  very  hammer-head 
that  Dick  Irving,  for  all  his  cleverness,  had  failed  to  find. 


LA  MINA   DE  LOS  PADRES.  203 

"  God  has  been  very  good  to  us,  my  Techa,"  he 
said,  as  they  stood  again  beneath  the  picture  of  the  gen 
tle  Santa  Clara  in  the  soft  darkness  that  was  stealing 
down  upon  the  dying  day.  "  His  mercy  has  come  to 
us  in  our  sorrow,  and,  through  the  entreaty  of  the  dear 
saint,  he  has  given  us  comfort  in  hope.  All  is  well 
with  us  now.  Thy  father  would  indeed  have  refused 
thee  to  the  goat-herd  Juan,  but  to  Sefior  Don  Juan,  the 
owner  of  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers,  he  will  not  say  no. 
I  shall  have  thee  for  my  very  own,  my  Techita ;  and 
for  all  our  lives  long,  in  our  love  and  happiness,  we  will 
praise  thankfully  and  worship  reverently  this  sweet  saint 
who  has  taken  from  us  our  sorrow,  and  given  us  in  its 
stead  great  joy. 

'•  And  see,  my  little  one,"  he  added,  lightly,  after 
they  had  stood  for  a  little  space  with  hands  clasped 
closely  and  eyes  turned  gratefully  upon  the  saint's  face 
— see !  I  have  found  the  mine,  and  yet  the  curse  has 
not  fallen  !  There  was  only  folly  in  thy  fears,  my 
little  heart.  The  blessed  saints  are  strong  to  stay  and 
to  save  them  who  have  faith  in  their  holy  goodness ; 
strong  to  drive  back  the  evil  power  of  this  false  god, 
whom  long  ago  they  conquered  and  threw  down/' 

But  again,  as  he  spoke  these  daring  v/ords,  Juan 
felt  a  shudder  of  dread  go  through  him.  For  all  the 
bravery  of  his  manliness  the  thought  would  come : 
What  if,  in  defiance  of  the  power  for  good  of  the  blessed 
saints,  the  power  for  evil  of  the  Pueblos'  god  even  yet 
lived  on  ? 

Upon  Tcchita's  heart  lay  heavily  this  same  dread  ; 
nor  was  it  greatly  lightened  by  Juan's  cheerfulness. 
Almost  was  she  persuaded  by  her  great  love  for  him  to 


204  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

bid  him  give  up  the  treasure  that  he  had  found  ;  to  suf 
fer  herself,  a  sacrifice  for  her  love's  sake,  to  be  wed  in 
accordance  with  her  father's  will.  Better  even  this 
great  misery,  she  thought,  than  that  harm  should  come 
to  her  lover. 

Thinking  these  doubting  thoughts,  she  stood  irreso 
lute,  her  eyes  turned  questioningly  upon  Santa  Clara's 
face ;  and  again,  in  the  soft,  faint  light  that  shone  upon 
it,  the  sweet  face  seemed  to  smile  upon  her  a  promise 
of  protection  that  bade  her  trust  and  hope.  Therefore 
she  hushed  the  doubts  which  were  in  her  heart,  and 

jb 

listened  welcomingly  to  Juan's  glad  promises  of  the  joy 
which  was  to  be.  And  in  making  these  promises  Juan 
also  forgot  the  fears  which  had  beset  him,  and  felt  only 
a  brave  elation  in  the  certainty  of  the  happiness  that 
had  come  to  them  from  the  good  God.  So,  in  the  pale 
moonlight,  they  parted  again,  having  in  the  brightness 
of  their  future  a  full  and  joyous  faith. 

Yet,  in  despite  of  this  faith,  through  the  long  dark 
ness  of  the  night  Techita,  waking,  was  oppressed  by 
dread  ;  and  in  her  sleep  there  came  to  her  fearful 
dreams.  And  in  waking  and  in  sleeping  the  thought 
that  possessed  her  was  that  out  of  the  very  fullness  of  her 
happiness  a  desolating,  irremediable  sorrow  was  to  come. 

Nor  did  the  brightness  of  the  sunshine,  when  at  last 
day  came  again,  chase  away  her  dark  forebodings.  A 
great  heaviness  lay  upon  her  soul ;  a  dreary  belief 
weighed  upon  her  that  the  sorrow  which  was  surely 
coming  was  very  near  at  hand.  Nor  could  she  doubt 
that,  whatever  this  sorrow  was  to  be,  it  must  come  to 
her  through  Juan.  As  she  knew,  Juan  had  gone  once 
more  into  the  mountains,  along  the  way  that  ho  had 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  205 

told  her  of,  to  the  old  mine.  Had  lie  been  in  the  vil 
lage,  or  working  in  the  near-by  fields,  she  would  have 
braved  her  father's  displeasure  and  gone  to  him — so 
keen  was  her  deep  consciousness  that  a  malignant  power 
was  loosed  to  do  him  harm. 

Slowly  the  day  wore  on,  each  hour  in  passing  adding 
to  her  restlessness  and  nervous  dread.  And  at  last, 
when  the  still  time  of  noon  was  come,  and  all  the  town 
was  hushed  in  sleep,  she  no  longer  could  restrain  the  im 
pulse  that  was  upon  her  to  go  to  him  ;  to  brave  with  him 
whatever  was  the  danger;  to  defend  him  living;  to  lie 
down  and  die  beside  him  should  he  be  dead.  Out  from 
the  silent  house,  out  from  the  sleeping  village,  up  the 
rock-strewn  arroijo  of  San  Pedro,  Techita  walked  firm 
ly  ;  in  her  heart  a  great  daring  born  of  her  greater  love. 

That  day  also  Dick  Irving  went  up  into  the  mount 
ains.  He  acknowledged  to  himself  savagely  that  he 
had  about  got  to  the  end  of  his  rope,  and  that  this 
would  be  the  last  day  of  his  foolery.  For  once  he 
would  have  to  own  up  that  he  had  tackled  a  job  that 
was  too  big  for  him ;  and  he  was  the  more  uglv  over  it 

o  o  «/ 

because  the  piece  of  float  that  he  had  in  his  pocket  made 
him  believe  absolutely  that  all  that  was  told  of  la  mina, 
de  los  Padres  was  true.  He  knew  that  the  mine  was 
somewhere  up  beyond  the  arroyo  of  San  Pedro ;  and 
knowing  this,  and  knowing  how  all  his  skillful  search 
for  it  had  ended  in  failure,  he  gritted  his  teeth  together 

/  O  O 

in  sullen  rage. 

He  thought  himself  more  than  half  a  fool  for  mak 
ing  this  last  expedition,  for  his  faith  that  it  would  end 
in  anything  but  another  failure  was  very  weak  indeed. 


206  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

But  he  was  a  conscientious  man — as  a  prospector,  that 
is — and  he  was  not  quite  satisfied  to  go  North  again 
without  having  one  more  look  at  the  ledge  of  rocks 
in  the  little  canon.  This  was  the  one  place  in  the 
mountains  where  he  had  struck  rock  identical  with 
his  specimen ;  and  while  he  had  convinced  himself  by 
his  first  exploration  that  there  was  no  mineral  in  the 
ledge  comparable  for  richness  with  that  in  the  float,  his 
absolute  failure  in  all  other  directions  made  him  desir 
ous  of  having  yet  another  look  here.  Moreover,  his 
careful  study  of  the  locality  had  shown  him  that,  all 
things  considered,  the  canon  was  the  most  likely  place 
from  which  the  bit  of  float  could  have  come.  But  for 
the  mass  of  rocks  in  the  canon's  mouth,  he  would  have 
been  quite  certain  that  it  was  from  there  that  his  speci 
men  had  started.  And  this  wall  of  rocks  across  the 
mouth  of  the  canon  bothered  him.  In  all  the  years 
that  he  had  been  prospecting  he  never  had  seen  any 
thing  like  it.  If  such  a  thing  had  not  been  impossible 
upon  its  face,  he  would  have  believed  that  the  rocks  had 
been  broken  loose  deliberately  and  thrown  down  from 
the  cliffs  above  not  by  Nature  but  by  man.  The  more 
that  his  mind  had  dwelt  upon  the  oddity  of  this  barrier, 
and  upon  the  equal  oddity  of  the  mass  of  broken  rocks 
in  the  line  of  the  ledge,  the  more  was  his  interest 
aroused.  There  was  something  queer  about  the  place 
that  attracted  him,  and  he  was  determined  to  see  it 
again.  Of  course,  as  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  good 
deal  of  hard  swearing  at  his  general  brainlessness,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  found  there,  and  he  only  was  going 
on  a  fool's  errand.  But,  all  the  same,  with  the  dogged 
perseverance  that  was  characteristic  of  him,  he  pulled 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES,  207 

himself  together  for  the  tough  tramp  up  the  arroyo  and 
the  mountain-side  beyond. 

It  was  a  tough  tramp,  and  no  mistake ;  and,  as  he 
had  not  any  heart  worth  speaking  of  in  what  lie  was 
doing,  he  went  slowly  and  made  many  halts.  This  was 
not  his  usual  way  of  working,  but  he  was  low  in  his 
mind  and  was  thinking  gloomy  thoughts  which  quite 
took  the  customary  spring  out  of  his  toes  and  heels. 
There  is  but  little  satisfaction  to  a  man  in  knowing  that 

O 

he  has  had  his  hand  very  nearly  on  great  good  fortune 
for  two  months  and  more,  and  yet  is  losing  it,  after  all. 
Dick  Irving,  whose  nature  was  not  a  gentle  one,  was  in 
a  state  of  glowing  rage  as  he  reflected  that  this  was  just 
about  where  he  was — rage  at  his  luck,  at  himself,  at  all 
the  world.  About  the  one  thing  that  could  have  given 
him  any  comfort  just  then  would  have  been  a  fight.  He 
was  fairly  aching  to  balance  his  own  misfortunes  by 
taking  them  out  on  somebody  else's  hide.' 

Suddenly  he  was  aroused,  by  the  deepening  shadows 
in  the  arroyo,  to  the  fact  that  the  end  of  the  day  was 
not  far  off.  As  he  had  intended  camping  for  the  night 
in  the  canon,  this  fact  did  not  disconcert  him,  but  it 
made  him  very  considerably  quicken  his  steps.  Yet, 
for  all  his  haste,  the  sun  was  near  setting  when  he 
climbed  the  mass  of  stones  lying  in  a  great  ridge  across 
the  canon's  mouth.  Fortunately  for  his  purposes,  the 
canon  faced  westward,  and  all  within  it  was  a  blaze  of 
mellow  light  from  the  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

As  he  climbed  the  barrier  he  heard  a  clicking  noise, 

C^  7 

that  made  him  start  as  though  he  had  received  a  blow  ; 
and  as  he  cautiously  peered  over  the  barrier's  crest  he 
saw  a  sight  that  sent  the  blood  with  a  rush  to  his  heart, 


208  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  then  fiercely  tingling  through  all  his  veins.  For 
the  sound  that  he  heard  was  the  click  of  a  pick  against 
rock,  and  the  sight  that  he  saw  was  a  man,  not  a  hun 
dred  yards  away  from  him,  at  work  on  the  very  ledge 
itself  !  If  here  truly  was  the  lost  mine,  then  was  he  too 
late  ;  another  set  of  stakes  was  in  ahead  of  his ! 

Luckily,  the  other  man  had  not  heard  him  scram 
bling  over  the  rocks,  and  so,  for  the  present,  at  least,  he 
was  master  of  the  situation.  Getting  into  a  good  posi 
tion  for  observation,  and  crouching  so  that  he  could  see, 
yet  could  not  be  seen,  he  carefully  studied  the  ground. 
Evidently  the  man  had  been  at  work  for  many  hours, 
and  had  worked  hard.  The  loose  rocks  which  had  lain 
in  the  break  in  the  ledge  were  rolled  away  in  all  direc 
tions — Dick  could  not  but  feel  instinctive  respect  for 
the  set  of  muscles  that  had  dealt  successfully  with  the 
tough  lifting  and  hauling  that  this  piece  of  work  in 
volved — and  the  earth  that  had  washed  in  between  the 
stones  had  been  carefully  shoveled  away.  This  was 
about  all  that  had  been  accomplished.  But  it  was 
enough.  For  there,  clearly  defined  in  the  line  of  the 
ledge,  was  the  square-cut  mouth  of  the  old  shaft.  La 
mina  de  los  Padres,  lost  for  two  hundred  years,  again 
was  found  ! 

As  Dick  Irving  realized  the  situation,  the  rage  that 
had  been  upon  him  all  day  culminated.  He  was  in  a 
white  heat  of  passion — and  as  tranquil  as  a  morning  in 
June.  There  was  just  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  he 
meant  to  do  it. 

"  Only  a  Greaser,  anyway,"  he  muttered.  "  The 

idea,"  he  added,  disdainfully,  "  of  a  d d  Greaser 

owning  the  Mine  of  the  Fathers ! "  In  the  excess  of 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  209 

contemptuous  disgust  that  this  thought  caused  him  he 
spat  upon  the  ground. 

Over  the  sights  of  his  revolver  he  measured  the  dis 
tance  carefully  with  his  eye,  and  with  commendable 
coolness  decided  that  it  was  too  great  for  certainty.  As 
the  business  had  to  be  done,  he  did  not  want  to  make  a 
mess  of  it ;  moreover,  as  he  prudently  reflected,  around 
the  shoulder  of  the  canon  there  mii>iit  be  another  man. 

O 

"With  these  judicious  thoughts  in  mind,  he  worked  his 
way  softly  across  the  wall  of  rocks— keeping  well  in  the 
shelter  of  the  great  fragments — and  down  on  its  inner 
side.  Once  within  the  canon,  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
slipping  from  rock  to  rock,  until  he  stopped  at  last  be 
hind  two  great  bowlders,  and  through  the  rift  between 
them  covered  his  man  at  a  distance  of  less  than  a  dozen 
yards. 

Juan  had  stopped  in  his  work,  and  stood  leaning  on 
the  handle  of  his  pick.  Over  him  and  around  him 
shone  a  blaze  of  rich  red  light,  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  His  face  had  a  weary  look,  and  his  strained  mus 
cles  were  relaxed ;  but  stronger  than  his  look  of  weari 
ness  was  his  look  of  joy,  and  even  the  pose  of  his  tired 
body  was  elate.  For  the  great  triumph  of  his  life  was 
won  :  at  last  he  knew  himself  a  victor  over  Fate.  In 
his  happiness  he  spoke  his  thought  aloud  :  "  My  Techa  ! 
the  joy-time  of  our  life  has  come  !  " 

And  even  as  he  spoke  these  words  the  sharp  crack 
of  Dick  Irving's  revolver  rattled  and  pealed  and  roared 
between  the  rocky  walls  of  the  canon — and  Juan  sank 
down  across  the  newly  opened  shaft  of  the  Mine  of  the 
Fathers  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart.  At  that  in 
stant  the  sun  dropped  below  the  level  of  the  wall  of 
14 


210  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

rocks,  and  all  the  lower  portion  of  the  cafion  was  left 
in  dusk — duskier  because  in  the  upper  portion  the  light 
still  shone  full  and  clear. 

Through  the  canon,  mingling  with  the  echoes  of  the 
pistol-shot,  yet  rising  above  them,  shrilly,  wailingly, 
sounded  a  cry  of  mortal  agony  ;  a  cry  despairing,  deso 
late,  charged  with  the  burden  of  a  lifetime  of  bitter 
woe  ;  a  cry  that  made  Dick  Irving's  weather-hardened 
face  turn  pale,  and  that  sent  a  chill  into  the  very  depths 
of  his  tough  heart ;  and  while  he  wondered,  doubting, 
trembling,  whence  came  this  woful  sound,  Techita  had 
sprung  down  from  the  crest  of  the  ridge  of  rocks  and 
was  standing  by  her  dead  lover's  side. 

Her  figure,  seen  in  the  gloom  of  the  canon  and 
through  the  powder-smoke  that  lingered  in  the  rift 
between  the  bowlders,  loomed  tall  and  indistinct  against 
the  darkness  of  the  rocks  beyond.  He  could  not  see 
her  form ;  he  could  not  see  her  face — wrenched  with 
the  agony  that  comes  when  love  dies  suddenly  before 
despair.  Raising  her  hand  heavenward,  like  the  proph 
etess  of  old,  her  voice  hushed  to  the  deep,  solemn  tone 
of  one  who  stands  upon  the  very  border  of  Time,  and 
sees  out  clearly  into  the  awful  mysteries  of  Eternity, 
she  spoke  :  "  The  curse  has  fallen — the  curse  of  the 
Pueblos'  god  !  " 

Dick  Irving  was  satisfied  with  the  good  stroke  of 
business  that  he  had  done,  and  his  finer  feelings  rebelled 
against  doing  any  more  business  of  that  sort  just  then. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  sturdy  common  sense  told  him 
that  there  was  only  one  course  that  he  could  rationally 
pursue  ;  that  he  had  gone  too  far  for  drawing  back  to 
be  possible. 


LA  MINA  DE  LOS  PADRES.  211 

"  As  nasty  a  job  as  ever  I  got  into,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  standing  beside  the  shaft,  as  he  drew  two  fresh 
cartridges  from  his  belt  and  dropped  them  into  the 
emptied  chambers  of  his  revolver.  Then,  presently,  in 
a  burst  of  righteous  indignation  :  "  Confound  her !  It 
ain't  my  fault,  anyway.  Why  couldn't  she  have  had 
the  sense  to  say  she  \vas  a  woman  2 "  And  then,  as  his 
nerves  grew  steadier,  he  added  more  cheerfully:  "  "Well, 
after  all,  it's  nothing  but  a  pair  of  Greasers — and  it 
was  a  lucky  whack  for  me  that  I  got  here  to-day,  and 
in  time  to  save  the  mine  !  " 

Slowly  the  glory  of  the  sunset  spread  across  the 
west.  Rising  against  the  red  and  golden  splendor,  the 
battlements  of  San  Yldefonso  stood  sharply  lined  ;  high 
into  the  gray -blue  sky  shot  red  and  golden  rays ;  over 
the  broad  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande  played  red  and 
golden  lights ;  all  heaven  and  all  the  earth  beneath 
seemed  blended  in  a  red  and  golden  symphony.  Then, 
slowly,  all  this  splendor  passed  away,  until  nothing 
was  left  of  it  save,  in  the  far  east,  over  the  distant 
mountains,  a  littly  rosy  cloud. 

In  the  still  church,  where  hung  the  picture  of  the 
sweet  Santa  Clara,  was  loneliness  ;  in  the  still  canon, 
high  up  on  the  mountain,  was  death.  Over  all  the 
earth,  darkening  the  silent  church,  darkening  the  silent 
canon,  had  come  gray  night. 

The  Lucky  Whack  Mining  Company,  as  Dick  Irv 
ing  declares — and  he  ought  to  know,  for  he  is  president 
of  it,  and  lives  East  in  a  style  that  proves  that  he  has 
lots  of  pay-dirt  somewhere — is  a  rattling  success.  Daily 
output,  two  thousand  ounces — and  millions  in  sight. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE   ANGELS. 

I. 

IN  that  old,  old  time  when  the  viceroys  of  King 
Philip  ruled  the  province  of  New  Spain,  certain  holy 
men — Franciscan  Brothers  vowed  to  God's  service — 
went  far  into  the  savage  wilderness  of  the  North  and 
spent  their  lives  willingly  that  the  souls  of  the  Indians 
there  dwelling  might  be  brought  to  a  knowledge  of 
Christian  grace  and  so  be  saved.  Thus  there  came  to  be 
in  that  remote,  wild  region  many  little  mission  stations, 
where  two  or  three  Brothers — dwelling  together  in  such 
rude  shelters  as  could  be  contrived  by  unskilled  hands 
— preached  constantly  to  the  savages  the  saving  mercy 
and  the  infinite  loving  -  kindness  vouchsafed  to  them 
who  hearkened  with  a  confident  conviction  to  the  liv 
ing  Word  of  God  ;  and  of  these  fortalices  of  the  faith 
Christian,  whence  paganism  most  resolutely  was  as 
sailed,  Santa  Maria  de  los  Angeles  was  one. 

In  the  course  of  years,  as  the  leaven  of  righteous 
ness  worked  itself  (yet  never  very  thoroughly)  into  the 
heathen  lump,  there  came  to  be  around  the  little  chapel 
a  cluster  of  adobe  houses ;  and  with  water  drawn 
through  acequias  from  the  stream  on  the  bank  whereof 
the  chapel  stood — in  which  stream  the  first  of  all  the 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  213 

Christian  converts  were  baptized — some  part  of  the 
arid  land  was  fertilized  ;  and  on  the  far-reaching  plain, 
and  the  slopes  of  the  hillsides  round  about,  meagerly 
pastured  a  few  scant  flocks  and  herds. 

Everywhere  in  this  sunny,  easy-going  land  time 
moves  slowly.  Over  the  town,  if  town  it  could  be 
called,  of  Saint  Mary  of  the  Angels,  time  scarcely 
moved  at  all.  Therefore  it  was  that  when  the  Ameri 
can-built  railroad,  coming  down  from  the  North,  reached 
Santa  Maria  and  passed  it,  the  whole  of  the  town  still 
was  only  the  chapel  and  the  half-dozen  or  so  of  adobe 
houses  which  the  Brothers  had  builded  there  three  cent 
uries  and  more  before.  And  in  these  many  years  the 
only  change  that  had  come  to  pass  was  that  the  chapel 
—in  which  mass  now  was  said  but  once  a  year,  M'hen  a 
priest  came  from  afar  to  hold  service  on  the  day  of 
Our  Lady — had  fallen  almost  into  ruin;  and  that  all 
memory  of  the  good  Brothers,  and  of  their  holy  teach 
ings,  was  buried  in  a  forgotten  past.  Of  another  such 
barren  and  deserted  vineyard  as  Santa  Maria  had  be 
come  a  Franciscan  chronicler  hath  written :  "  AVThere 
aforetime  our  Brothers  planted  the  seed  of  God's  love 
and  mercy  now  only  is  a  devil's  garden — overgrown 
with  a  forest  of  the  damnable  doctrines  of  paganism 
and  choked  by  the  weeds  of  natural  human  sin." 

In  point  of  fact,  when  the  superintendent  appointed 
John  Hardy  station-master  at  Santa  Maria,  he  consid 
ered  it  necessary  to  preface  the  appointment  with  an 
apology. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you.  Hardy,"  he  said,  "  that 
Santa  Maria's  about  the  hardest  station  on  the  whole 
line.  Such  a  crowd  of  Greaser  toughs  as  have  got  to- 


214:  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

gether  there  I've  never  come  across  in  one  lump  before. 
There's  not  many  of  'em  ;  but  there  isn't  a  man  in  the 
lot  that's  lit  for  anything  but  to  be  shot  off-hand.  All 
the  men  are  horse-thieves  or  smugglers  or  both,  with  a 
fair  sprinkling  of  murderers  ;  and  all  the  women — well, 
I  guess  we  won't  talk  about  the  women.  I  hate  to  put 
you  there,  and  that's  a  fact;  but  unless  I  can  get  a 
decent  man  there  the  Company's  property  will  all  go  to 
the  devil.  There's  a  watering-station  at  Santa  Maria, 
you  know,  and  something's  all  wrong  with  it.  Bar- 
wood,  who's  in  charge,  is  a  tough  if  ever  there  was 
one.  But  I  wouldn't  mind  how  tough  he  was  if  he'd 
only  run  his  pump  right;  but  he  don't.  We  only 
water  four  engines  a  day  there,  as  a  steady  thing,  and 
pumping  two  days  in  the  week  ought  to  keep  his  tank 
full  easy.  But  he  requisitions  enough  fire-wood  to  keep 
his  pump  going  all  the  time.  I  want  you  to  go  to  work 
and  find  out  what  his  game  is.  He's  a  bad  inan,  for 
sure ;  but  I  guess  you  can  manage  to  down  him.  You 
know  how  to  shoot  ? " 

"  I've  been  living  around  in  New  Mexico  and  Ari 
zona  and  Texas  for  the  last  two  or  three  years,"  Hardy 
answered,  with  the  modest  indirectness  in  such  matters 
that  usually  characterizes  a  good  man  on  the  frontier. 

"  I  guess  you'll  do,  then.  I  hope  there  won't  be  any 
shooting ;  but,  if  it  comes,  just  you  take  care  of  yourself 
and  the  Company  will  back  you  up  in  it.  I  declare,  I 
hate  to  put  you  at  Santa  Maria,  I  do  indeed.  I  don't 

mind  telling  you  that  I'm  sick  of  this  d d  country 

myself,  and  I'm  going  to  pull  out  of  it  pretty  soon  and 
go  where  there's  white  men.  Now,  I  tell  you  what  I'll 
do :  I'll  take  you  along.  I've  got  things  pretty  well 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  215 

fixed  for  myself,  and  I  guess  I  can  fix  things  so  as  to 
rope  you  in  too— so  just  you  be  ready  to  put  your  hat 
on  when  I  start.  While  I'm  here,  though,  I've  got  to 

do  the  square  thing  by  the  Company — which  is  a  d d 

sight  more  than  the  Company's  done  by  me — so  just 
you  take  hold  at  Santa  Maria  and  get  things  in  shape 
there.  Comfort  yourself  with  thinking  that  you  won't 
have  more  than  two  months  of  it ;  and  then  we'll  light 
out  together  and  get  into  God's  country  once  more — 
and  after  that  I  guess  you  won't  ketch  me  taking  any 
more  Greaser  in  mine !  I  don't  know  what  brought 
you  down  into  these  parts;  but  I  know  /came  because 

I  was  a  d -n  fool !     I'm  not  any  too  proud  of  myself, 

but  I  do  think  that  I'm  a  cussed  sight  too  good  for 
Mexico  ;  and,  unless  I'm  badly  out,  so  are  you.  I  guess 
you're  not  the  kind,  any  more  than  I  am,  that  was 
made  for  rustling  on  the  frontier." 

II. 

JOHN  HARDY  certainly  was  not  made  for  the  front 
ier  ;  though,  to  do  him  justice,  he  had  the  "  sand  "  that 
enabled  him  to  hold  his  own  there  pretty  well.  But 
then  for  the  past  three  years  he  had  been  very  much  in 
doubt  as  to  whether  he  had  been  made  for  anything  use 
ful  at  all.  Fortune  had  not  treated  this  young  man  well, 
and  the  instrument  that  Fortune  had  used  to  his  injury 
was  a  woman. 

Hardy  was  a  fair  specimen  of  the  hard-working 
American.  In  the  coal-mining  town  in  the  Wyoming 
Valley,  where  he  was  born,  he  had  gone  to  work  when 
he  was  sixteen  in  the  Company's  store  as  "  boy  "  ;  and  in 


216  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  course  of  half  a  dozen  years  lie  had  won  his  way 
to  a  responsible  place  at  the  books.  He  was  a  steady, 
resolute  young  fellow,  who  did  not  meddle  with  any 
body's  business,  and  who  insisted  that  nobody  should 
meddle  with  his.  He  found  it  necessary  to  mash  sev 
eral  heads  in  his  quiet,  decisive  way  before  his  atti 
tude  toward  the  community  in  which  he  lived  was  un 
derstood  ;  but  when,  by  this  simple  and  direct  method 
— well  understood  in  a  mining  town,  where  the  or 
deal  of  combat  was  a  recognized  social  institution — he 
had  made  his  position  clear  and  himself  respected,  he  was 
let  alone.  Thus  he  fairly  established  himself  as  a  good 
citizen  who  could  maintain  his  own  rights  and  who  re 
spected  the  rights  of  others  ;  and  as  a  good  business  man 
who  could  make  his  way  in  the  world.  And  then,  when 
he  was  twenty-three  years  old,  he  began  his  misfortunes 
by  falling  in  love. 

Hardy  did  not  think  that  there  was  anything  unfor 
tunate  about  it.  He  did  think,  though — being  a  modest 
young  fellow — that  Mary  "Wade  was  a  great  deal  too 
good  for  him.  Her  people  lived  in  Wilkesbarre,  and 
she  came  down  to  take  charge  of  the  primary  depart 
ment  of  the  public  school.  A  good  deal  of  doubt  was 
expressed  among  the  towns-folk  as  to  her  ability  to  man 
age  that  primary  department ;  but,  according  to  'Squire 
Rambo — who  was  chairman  of  the  School  Board,  and 
who  also  was  a  mine  superintendent — she  did  manage  it 
very  successfully. 

"  She  ain't  much  to  look  at  for  strong,"  said  'Squire 
Rambo,  "  but  she's  just  a  little  blue-eyed  breaker  to  go, 
and  don't  you  forget  it !  Me  and  the  other  trustees 
sized  her  up  right  from  the  start.  Why,  as  t'  that  pri- 


SAIXT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  217 

mary  department  she's  just — she's  just  sot  on  it ;  reg'- 
larly  makes  every  one  o'  them  little  devils  pertend  he's 
a  lamb,  an'  live  up  t'  his  pertensions.  An'  she's  that 
gentle  an'  sweet  with  'em,  when  they  give  her  half  a 
chance,  that  when  she  ain't  act'ally  lickin'  'em  they're 
all  in  love  with  her.  She's  a  wonder,  she  is !  Com 
pressed  air  ain't  nothin'  to  her  !  " 

Yet  there  were  uncharitable  people  who  said  that, 
inasmuch  as  the  new  teacher  was  'Squire  Rambo's  wife's 
cousin,  and  boarded  at  his  house,  his  views  concerning 
her  were  not  strictly  impartial ;  and  who  hinted,  also, 
that  better  results  would  be  produced  in  the  school  were 
the  transitions  on  the  part  of  the  teacher  in  the  manage 
ment  of  her  charges  from  effusive  affection  to  severe 
castigation  less  sudden  and  less  frequent. 

That  the  children  whom  Mary  AVade  alternately 
petted  and  whipped  entertained  any  great  amount  of 
love  for  her  may  be  questioned  ;  but  there  was  no  room 
for  questioning  the  fact  that  most  of  the  young  men  of 
the  town  fell  in  love  with  her  on  sight.  As  a  whole, 
this  outburst  of  tender  passion  received  no  great  amount 
of  encouragement.  When,  in  individual  cases,  it  came 
to  the  logical  climax  of  a  proposal  in  form  it  was  deci 
sively  checked.  According  to  the  gossip  of  the  town, 
Hardy  was  the  only  lover  of  them  all  whom  Mary  really 
favored  ;  and  yet  he  was  the  very  last  of  them  all  who 
gave  her  the  chance  to  act  in  his  case  finally. 

He  went  at  his  love-making  in  the  same  quiet  way 
that  he  went  at  his  fighting ;  and  with  the  same  tre 
mendous  energy  and  the  same  fixed  determination  to 
win.  His  method  Avas  so  very  quiet,  indeed,  that  several 
months  passed  before  Mary  at  all  realized  its  underlying 


218  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

earnestness  and  force.  His  attitude  toward  her,  as  she 
believed,  was  friendly  rather  than  lover-like ;  and  she 
found  his  brotherliness,  as  she  called  it,  a  welcome  re 
lief  from  the  very  aggressive  love-making  of  the  numer 
ous  young  miners  whose  picks  and  hearts  were  laid  as 
votive  offerings  at  her  feet.  She  grew  to  be  confiden 
tial  with  him,  telling  him  some  of  the  funny  incidents 
of  her  various  courtships ;  and  over  these  they  laughed 
together,  comfortably.  She  fell  into  the  habit,  also,  of 
telling  him  about  her  worries  with  the  school-children, 
and  of  counting  upon  his  advice  and  sympathy.  When 
the  spring  opened,  they  took  walks  together  through 
the  meadows  and  in  the  woods  on  Sunday  afternoons — 
professedly  that  she  might  teach  him  what  little  she 
knew  about  botany. 

As  the  spring  wore  away  and  summer  drew  near, 
they  talked  less  and  less  about  botany  during  these 
walks,  and  more  about  themselves.  He  told  her,  as  a 
great  secret,  of  his  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future.  His 
ambition  was  not  a  very  vaulting  one ;  he  meant  to 
work  his  way  up  until  he  was  superintendent  of  the 
Company's  store,  with  a  salary  of  three  thousand  dollars 
a  year.  This  was  quite  enough  for  two  people  to  live 
on  comfortably,  he  said.  Mary  felt  a  queer  little  pang 
of  something  like  jealousy  as  she  wondered  who  the 
second  one  of  these  two  people  would  be ;  but  she  only 
answered  that  on  three  thousand  dollars  a  year  two 
people  would  be  able  to  live  very  comfortably  indeed. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  she  came  very  near  tell 
ing  him  a  certain  secret  of  her  own ;  but  before  she 
quite  had  nerved  herself  to  this  undertaking  their  talk 
had  slipped  off  in  another  direction,  and  her  oppor- 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  219 

trinity  was  lost.  It  did  not  come  again ;  perhaps  she 
did  not  try  very  vigorously  to  make  it  come.  Down 
in  the  depths  of  her  heart  lay  the  conviction — though 
she  persistently  refused  to  recognize  it— that  with  the 
telling  of  her  secret  her  idyl  of  a  brotherly  and  a  sis 
terly  friendship  would  come  suddenly  to  an  end.  She 
was  not  behaving  well,  this  blue-eyed  school-mistress ; 
and  she  did  not  improve  her  moral  standing  in  the 
case,  especially  after  that  talk  about  two  people  living 
on  three  thousand  dollars  a  year,  by  continuing  her 
friendship  with  Hardy  on  its  highly  factitious  brotherly 
and  sisterly  basis.  For  the  fact  of  the  matter  was  that 
through  all  the  time  of  her  philandering  with  Hardy 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  another  man. 

The  spring  days  went  by  quickly,  and — in  spite  of 
her  twinges  of  conscience,  which  she  did  her  best  to 
ignore— Mary  found  them  very  delightful.  The  more 
that  Hardy's  character  was  made  plain  to  her — it  was 
a  simple,  sturdy  character,  easy  to  understand  —  the 
more  she  liked  him  and  respected  him.  He  was  a 
man  all  the  way  through ;  and  for  her,  with  her  lack 
of  will-power,  and  her  tendency  to  shirk  responsibility, 
there  was  a  restful  comfort  in  his  steadfastness  and 
manly  strength.  She  fairly  acknowledged  to  herself 
that  had  she  met  him  before  she  met  the  lover  to  whom 
her  word  was  pledged  she  gladly  would  have  married 
him.  But,  while  admitting  this  much,  she  still  refused 
to  face  the  fact  that  he  was  seriously  in  love  with  her ; 
still  pretended  to  herself  that  his  affection  for  her  was 
of  the  brotherly  sort  that  would  continue  when  she  was 
married.  She  applied  the  logic  of  analogy  to  the  .situ 
ation,  reasoning  that  since  her  marriage  would  not 


220  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

change  her  feeling  toward  him  it  would  not  change  his 
feeling  toward  her. 

Of  course,  a  dream  so  hopelessly  at  odds  with  the 
realities  of  life  as  this  dream  was  could  not  last.  One 
Sunday  afternoon  in  June — the  school  would  close  that 
week,  and  then  she  would  go  back  to  Wilksbarre  for 
the  summer — there  came  to  them  the  shock  of  waking. 
That  day  they  had  made  no  pretense  of  botanizing 
They  had  walked  a  mile  or  so  across  the  meadow-lands 
to  a  wood  growing  on  a  part  of  the  mountain-side  that 
as  yet  was  unprof aned  by  coal-pits  ancl  breakers ;  and 
where,  high  up  above  the  valley,  a  ledge  of  rock  jutted 
out  in  a  great  terrace.  Here  they  had  settled  them 
selves  in  a  nook  where  the  rock  formed  a  natural  seat," 
that  became  a  luxurious  lounging-place  when  cushioned 
with  sweet-fern  and  covered  with  Mary's  shawl.  They 
themselves  had  discovered  this  place,  and  they  regarded 
it  as  peculiarly  their  own. 

The  day  was  a  very  perfect  one.  The  sky  was  a  pale 
turquoise  blue,  unflecked  by  a  single  cloud — save  that  off 
to  the  eastward  a  soft,  delicious  haze  hung  lightly  above 
the  distant  mountain-crests.  Out  of  the  southeast  a 
warm  wind  was  blowing,  gently,  languorously.  A  flood 
of  warm  spring  sunshine  fell  on  the  thick  forest  growth 
about  them,  and,  filtering  through  the  network  of  leaves 
and  branches,  flecked  the  brown  rocks  and  browner 
earth  with  patches  of  golden  light.  Far  below  them, 
winding  through  the  green  meadows,  the  Susquehan- 
na  gleamed  like  a  broad  band  of  silver  —  that  grew 
narrower  and  less  and  less  silvery  until  it  was  lost  in 
the  distance  in  a  faint  streak  of  gray.  The  only  sounds 
which  came  to  them  were  the  soft  sighings  of  the  gentle 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  221 

wind  among  the  trees ;  a  chattering  now  and  then  of 
squirrels ;  the  low  throbbing  of  a  pump  at  some  distant 
mine.  Mary  had  brought  a  volume  of  poems  with  her, 
Dr.  Holland's  "Bitter -Sweet,"  and  Hardy  had  been 
reading  from  it  aloud. 

u  What  a  wonderful  poet  he  is ! "  she  said,  as  Hardy 
laid  down  the  book.  "  Isn't  it  wonderful  how  he  tells 
things  just  as  they  really  are  ?  Now  about  that  cider  : 
it's  as  true  as  true  can  be  !  When  the  'Squire  got  in  a 
barrel  last  fall,  and  I  went  down  cellar  to  look  at  it,  it 
was  '  working ' — all  frothing  at  the  bung-hole — just  as 
lie  says  it  does  in  the  poem.  I've  read  a  great  deal  of 
poetry,  but  I  never  saw  that  fact  about  cider  '  working ' 
brought  out  that  way  before.  Did  you  ?  " 

"  JX"  o,"  Hardy  answered,  "  I  never  did.  What  a  lot 
of  it  they  had — sixteen  barrels  !  Must  have  kept  it  for 
sale,  I  guess."  There  was  a  strain  of  effort  in  his  tone 
as  he  spoke.  Obviously  the  subject  did  not  interest 
him — not  even  in  its  commercial  aspect.  Mary  vent 
ured  one  or  two  commendatory  remarks  upon  the  poet 
and  the  poem,  to  which  he  did  not  even  in  this  per 
functory  fashion  reply.  Then  she  too  was  silent.  But 
the  silence  wras  not  of  that  easy  sort  that  comes  when 
two  people  do  not  speak  because  each  understands  and 
follows  the  other's  thought.  It  was  an  unrestful  silence, 
that  had  in  it  the  feeling  of  the  stillness  which  pre 
cedes  a  storm.  The  steady  beating  of  the  distant  pump 
seemed  to  come  nearer  and  to  grow  more  clear.  Mary 
felt  a  shiver  run  through  her,  although  the  air  was  soft 
and  warm. 

She  would  not  turn  toward  him,  but  she  knew  that 
his  brown  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  that  in  them 


222  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

was  a  look  of  eagerness— almost  of  command.  Until 
now  she  had  succeeded,  after  a  fashion,  in  hiding  from 
herself  what  she  instinctively  knew  all  the  while  was 
the  truth.  Now  the  truth  was  forced  home  to  her,  so 
strongly  that  evasion  of  it  was  impossible :  that  this 
love  which  she  refused  to  recognize,  or  recognized  and 
called  brotherly,  was  of  the  masterful  sort  that  only 
possession  would  satisfy.  She  grew  very  pale  ;  her 
breath  came  and  went  irregularly ;  she  trembled  a 
little — the  throbbing  of  the  distant  pump  filled  her  ears 
with  a  dull,  suffocating  sound  that  in  some  confused 
way  made  itself  a  part  of  the  beating  of  her  own  heart. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  for  years  they  thus  sat  silent.  At 
last,  very  simply,  Hardy  spoke  : 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Mary  ?  " 

She  started  violently.  In  a  moment  she  began  to 
cry.  Hardy  drew  toward  her,  but  she  motioned  him 
away. 

"  O  John,  please — I'm  so  very  sorry !  I — I  ought 
to  have  told  you.  Haven't  I  told  you  ?  I'm — I'm  en 
gaged  to  be  married,  John."  Then  she  fell  to  crying 
again. 

After  a  while,  without  raising  her  head,  she  went 
on  :  "  Won't  you  forgive  me,  John  ?  Indeed,  I'm  sorry. 
Please  forgive  me !  " 

He  was  silent. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  comfort  me?"  she 
asked  at  last,  looking  up  to  him  with  her  pretty  blue 
eyes  full  of  tears.  When  she  saw  his  face  a  thrill  of 
fright  went  through  her,  his  look  was  so  hard  and  stern. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered  ;  and  added  :  "  We  had 
better  go  home  now,  I  think." 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  223 


c. 


You  are  very  cruel,"  she  said ;  but  she  put  her 
hand  upon  the  rocky  ledge  above  her  head  and  slowly 
raised  herself  to  her  feet.  There  was  a  curious  rattling 
sound  that  caused  her  to  turn  her  head  quickly.  She 
gave  a  cry  of  terror.  Close  beside  her  hand  was  a  rattle 
snake,  ready  coiled  to  spring.  It  had  come  out  on  the 
warm  rock  to  sun  itself,  and  had  been  there,  no  doubt, 
all  the  while  close  beside  them.  Hardy,  as  the  sound 
caused  him  to  turn  sharply,  perceived  her  peril.  Like 
a  flash,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  snatched  her 
away.  At  the  same  instant  the  snake  sprang,  striking 
so  strongly  that — missing  her  hand — it  slid  over  the 
edge  of  the  rock  and  disappeared  among  the  fallen 
leaves  and  undergrowth  in  the  depth  below. 

Mary  lay  weak,  almost  fainting,  in  Hardy's  arms. 
He  carried  her  to  a  spring  near  by,  and  there  with  the 
cold  water  bathed  her  wrists  and  temples.  As  she 
rested  in  his  arms  he  had  a  curious  feeling  that  the 
body  that  he  thus  held  was  a  corpse.  Presently  the 
cold  water  revived  her.  She  stood  upright  and  said 
that  she  felt  strong  enough  to  walk.  With  his  arm 
supporting  her,  they  went  together  slowly  down  the 
mountain-side.  Thick  clouds  were  rising  rapidly  be 
fore  a  chill  wind  that  had  begun  to  blow  out  of  the 
northeast.  The  sun  was  hidden.  The  valley  was  cold 
and  gray.  Over  all  nature  had  come  a  desolate 
change. 

By  the  time  that  they  reached  the  level  land  below, 
she  was  strong  enough  to  walk  alone.  During  their 
descent  neither  of  them  had  spoken.  In  silence  they 
went  on  until  they  came  to  'Squire  liarnbo's  house,  and 
in  silence  he  turned  to  leave  her. 


224  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

"  You  are  not  going  away  like  that — without  a 
word  \  "  she  said. 

"  What  is  there  to  say  ? "  he  asked. 

"  That  you  forgive  me.  Oh,  tell  me  that  you  for 
give  me,  John  !  I'm  so  very,  very  sorry.  Indeed  I  am. 
You  will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  dear  John  ? " 

Hardy  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  the  expression  upon 
his  face  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  Then  he  spoke  ;  slowly 
and  steadily  at  first,  but  with  a  vehemence  that  increased 
as  his  rage  increased  by  giving  vent  to  it : 

"  You  have  spoiled  my  life  for  me,  Mary,"  he  said, 
"  and  without  any  reason  at  all.  The  harm  that  you 
have  done  me  would  not  have  been  done  if  you  had 
told  me  three  months  ago  what  you  have  told  me  to- 
.day.  And  now  that  the  harm  is  done,  done  needlessly, 
wickedly,  you  want  me  '  to  forgive  you '  for  doing  it ! 
"Well,  I  tell  you  plainly,  I'll  see  you  damned  first !  Is 
that  plain  enough  for  you  ?  Do  you  want  anything 
plainer  than  that  ?  You  can  faint  if  you  want  to  " — 
Mary  suddenly  had  turned  very  white,  and  almost  had 
fallen  as  she  stepped  back  and  leaned  against  the  door- 
jamb  for  support — "  for  it's  a  matter  to  faint  over.  A 
man  has  only  one  life,  and  the  woman  who  spoils  it  for 
him  as  you  have  spoiled  my  life  for  me  has  a  good  deal 
to  answer  for.  Yes,  faint  if  you  want  to — it's  the  best 
thing  you  can  do. 

"  Good-by  !  I'm  going  away.  I'm  going  out  of  this 
altogether,  so  that  I'll  never  lay  eyes  on  you  again — 
and  I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  laid  eyes  on  you  at  all ! 
But,  remember,  you  have  brought  a  curse  on  my  life, 
and  I  leave  a  curse  on  yours.  Sooner  or  later  you  will 
feel  the  weight  of  it,  mark  my  words ! " 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  225 

Hardy's  quiet,  almost  stolid,  nature  was  stirred  to  its 
depths  with  rage.  A  great  wrong  had  been  put  upon 
him,  and  he  resented  it  with  the  reckless  fury  natural 
to  a  man  of  his  temperament  when  once  he  fairly  loses 
himself  in  a  passionate  outburst  of  unbridled  wrath. 
Mary  cowered  before  him — white,  trembling,  stunned. 

So  he  parted  from  her — and  that  very  night  he  left 
the  town. 

III. 

Tins,  then,  was  the  turn  of  fortune  that  had  driven 
Hardy  down  to  the  Southwestern  frontier  and  that  had 
made  him  a  wanderer  there. 

Being  cast  out  into  the  wilderness,  life  had  no  good 
in  it  for  him  and  he  valued  it  lightly ;  and  so  was 
ready  to  take  the  risks  which,  after  all,  in  that  rough 
region  led  most  surely  to  safety.  He  was  more  than 
ready  to  light  anybody,  and  he  was  rather  surprised — 
after  engaging  in  a  few  passages  at  arms,  in  which  he 
came  out  on  top — by  finding  how  few  people  wanted  to 
fight  him.  At  first  there  was  a  strong  probability  that 
he  would  go  to  the  bad,  and  that  his  end  would  be  a 
sudden  one  at  the  hands  of  a  vigilance  committee  or  a 
sheriff's  posse.  But  gradually,  as  he  rallied  from  the 
shock  that  his  moral  nature  had  sustained,  his  old  habits 
of  steadiness  and  self-control  returned  to  him,  and  the 
dangerous  corner  was  safely  turned.  He  did  honest 
work  and  he  worked  hard;  but  he  found  that  he  could 
not  work  long  in  any  one  place  nor  at  any  one  thing. 
He  tried  ranching  for  a  while,  and  got  the  hang  of 
Spanish  from  the  Mexican  herdsmen  ;  he  ran  a  store  in 
a  little  town  ;  he  picked  up  telegraphy  and  took  charge 


226  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

of  a  railway  station  ;  he  drove  a  stage ;  he  managed  an 
express-office — only  by  keeping  his  mind  stirred  by  fre 
quent  change  could  he  save  himself  from  falling  into  a 
brooding  melancholy  over  the  past. 

Yet,  as  time  wore  on,  much  of  the  bitterness  that 
had  filled  his  heart  slowly  died  out  of  it.  His  rage 
against  the  woman  who  had  befooled  him  of  his  love, 
when  she  had  no  like  love  to  give  him  in  return,  by  de 
grees  abated  until  it  well-nigh  ceased  to  have  existence. 
One  day,  coming  upon  some  sentimental  verses  in  an  old 
newspaper,  he  was  surprised  by  finding  that  he  was 
thinking  tenderly  of  Mary — and  of  the  time  when  she 
had  taken  these  very  verses  out  of  her  pocket-book  and 
had  read  them  to  him,  one  of  those  Sunday  afternoons 
back  in  the  past.  And  then  the  memory  of  her  as 
he  had  left  her — cowering,  fainting,  withered,  in  the 
doorway  of  the  Rambo  house — came  strongly  upon  him 
and  sent  a  thrill  of  shame  and  sorrow  through  his  heart. 
For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  that  what,  until 
that  moment,  he  had  regarded  as  only  a  strong  but  jus 
tifiable  expression  of  his  righteous  wrath  had  been  in 
truth  an  outburst  of  unqualified  brutality.  He  com 
forted  himself  by  the  reflection  that  it  had  been  a  bad 
business  all  the  way  through ;  that,  if  he  had  done 
wrong,  there  certainly  had  been  a  good  deal  in  the  situ 
ation  to  justify  his  wrong-doing.  There  was  enough  of 
truth  in  this  view  of  the  matter  to  make  his  defensive 
position  a  tenable  one,  and  he  hung  on  to  it.  He  had 
not  yet  forgiven  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  him ; 
but  he  had  passed  a  long  way  beyond  the  stage  in  which 
his  only  feeling  was  a  bitter  anger  that  made  him  long 
for  revenge.  Now  and  then  he  found  himself  wonder- 


SAINT  MARY  OF  TEE  ANGELS.  227 

ing  what  had  happened  to  Mary  in  the  two  years  that 
had  drained  so  heavily  for  him  since  he  left  her.  "Very 

OO  v  t/ 

likelv  they  had  gone  fast  enough  for  her.  By  this  time, 
no  doubt,  she  had  been  a  year  or  so  married,  lie  did 
not  like  to  think  of  this  probability.  He  preferred  to 
think  that  some  accident  had  intervened  and  that  the 
marriage  had  fallen  through.  And  then,  sometimes, 
he  would  wonder  what  would  happen  should  a  turn  of 
chance  bring  them  together  again. 

Thus  another  year  went  by,  during  which  time  the 
tonic  to  soul  and  body  that  he  found  in  his  hard  work 
and  in  his  rough  life  tended  still  more  to  restore  his 
moral  equilibrium.  But  his  heart-wound  was  not  as 
yet  entirely  healed,  and  his  only  desire  was  to  continue 
his  aimless  existence  until  a  fuller  forgetfulness  should 
come.  And  this  was  his  state  when,  drifting  down  to 
the  border  in  search  of  a  fresh  job,  he  accepted  the 
offered  berth  of  station-master  at  Santa  Maria  de  los 
Angeles.  That  the  berth  was  a  rough  one,  and  that 
there  was  a  chance  for  fighting  connected  with  it,  he 
considered  to  be  its  strongest  attractions. 

IV. 

THE  superintendent  was  going  down  the  line  on  a 
special,  and  he  took  Hardy  along.  They  had  a  clear 
track,  and  made  the  run  of  fifty  miles  to  Santa  Maria  in 
a  triile  over  two  hours.  The  last  five  miles  was  all 
down-grade,  from  a  high  divide  to  the  point  where  the 
track  crossed  the  broad  valley  of  the  little  river  on  a 
long  trestle.  At  the  southern  end  of  the  trestle  was  the 
tank.  The  pump  was  down  below,  beside  the  stream, 


228  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  hidden  by  the  high  bank.  Three  or  four  hundred 
yards  farther  down  the  line  was  the  station — a  little 
frame  building  painted  dark  brown.  It  looked  hope 
lessly  out  of  place,  and  desperately  hot  and  uncomfort 
able  under  the  blazing  Mexican  sun.  Away  to  the  left, 
on  the  bluff  above  the  stream,  was  the  town — a  cluster 
of  shabby  adobe  houses,  built  irregularly  about  the  old 
chapel.  It  was  a  dusty,  dirty,  dreary-looking  place, 
without  a  shrub  or  tree  for  shelter  against  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  sun.  The  only  visible  signs  of  life  were  a 
few  naked  children  bathing  in  the  river  and  some  ill- 
favored  dogs  drowsing  beside  the  houses  in  narrow 
strips  of  shade. 

A  great  plain  covered  with  cactus  growth  and 
studded  with  pita  palms  stretched  away  toward  the  dis 
tant  mountains  in  the  east — the  very  realization  of  arid 
desolateness.  Across  this  plain,  a  yellow,  dusty  streak, 
went  the  trail  leading  to  the  mines.  An  American 
company  had  bought  these  mines,  and  in  a  desultory 
fashion  was  working  them.  It  was  for  the  encourage 
ment  of  the  American  company — it  needed  encourage 
ment  badly — that  the  station  of  Santa  Maria  had  been 
established. 

Hardy  was  not  as  much  discouraged  by  the  looks  of 
his  prospective  home  as  a  man  fresh  from  the  States 
would  have  been.  He  had  lived  in  some  pretty  hard 
places  during  the  past  three  years,  and  he  had  come  to 
know  that  in  towns  quite  as  ill-looking  as  Santa  Maria 
was  there  were  possibilities  of  comparative  comfort.  Like 
all  men  who  have  become  familiar  with  the  Southwest, 
the  sight  of  water  cheered  him — for  running  water  is  a 
mighty  solace  in  a  hot  land.  The  refreshing  wonders 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  229 

which  water  can  work  were  shown  at  Santa  Maria  by  a 
delectably  green  expanse  of  a  dozen  acres  or  so  stretch 
ing  along  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hillsides  beyond  the 
town—the  cultivated  ground  that  drew  its  life  from  a 
great  acequia  fed  from  the  river.  It  did  Hardy's  heart 
good  to  see  this  bit  of  green. 

The  engine  slowed  up  as  it  neared  the  bottom  of 
the  long  down-grade,  and  stopped  beside  the  tank. 
The  gauge  showed  that  the  tank  was  full,  but  the 
pump  was  at  work.  In  a  moment  the  pump  stopped, 
and  then  a  man  came  out  from  the  engine-house  and 
climbed  up  the  steep  bank.  When  he  got  on  level 
ground  he  walked  toward  them  in  a  slouching  fashion 
that  was  in  keeping  with  his  surly  manner  when  he 
got  near  enough  to  speak.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
heavily  and  strongly  built.  His  black  hair  and  beard, 
his  dark  eyes  and  dark  skin,  gave  him  the  look  of  a 
Mexican. 

"  What  the  devil—  '  he  began,  and  then  stopped  as 
lie  saw  the  superintendent. 

"  What  are  you  running  that  pump  for  when  your 
tank  is  full '(  "  the  superintendent  asked,  sharply. 

"  I  ain't  runnin'  it.  I'ts  stopped.  I've  just  filled 
her.  If  I'd  run  after  she  was  full  there'd  be  water 
under  the  escape,  wouldn't  there?  Well,  there  ain't 
any.  Look  for  yourself." 

It  struck  Hardy  that  the  man  was  very  eager  to 
make  this  point  in  his  own  favor.  If  the  same  thought 
struck  the  superintendent,  he  kept  it  to  himself. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "'  But  you  burn  a  lot  of 
wood,  all  the  same."  And  then  he  added  with  a  touch 
of  that  odd  formalism  that  leads  certain  classes  of 


230  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Americans  to  refer  to  each  other  as  "  gentlemen,"  and 
to  adopt  on  occasion  ceremonious  forms  of  address  by 
no  means  in  keeping  with  their  normal  speech  :  "  Mr. 
William  Barwood,  let  me  make  you  acquainted  with 
Mr.  John  Hardy.  Mr.  Hardy  is  the  gentleman  who 
is  going  to  take  charge  of  the  station,  you  know.  I 
want  you  to  do  what  you  can  to  make  things  pleasant 
for  him." 

Barwood  looked  sharply  at  Hardy  for  a  moment ; 
then,  dropping  his  eyes,  he  shambled  up  to  him  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Shake,"  he  said. 

Hardy  shook. 

There  was  a  gratifying  friendliness  in  this  demon 
stration  ;  but  it  did  not  prevent  Hardy  from  entertain 
ing  the  possibly  unreasonable  notion  that  what  this  man 
really  wanted  to  do  was  to  stick  a  knife  into  him. 

"  As  for  makin'  things  pleasant  for  Mr.  Hardy," 
Barwood  answered,  "  or  for  anybody  else  in  this  hell 
hole,  I  can't  say  that  the  prospect's  promisin'.  But  I'll 
do  what  I  can  for  him  to  make  it  a  little  less  stinkin'. 
S'pose  we  go  up  to  th'  station  an'  I'll  turn  things  over 
to  him — though  besides  twelve  blank  tickets  and  th' 
way-book  and  a  kerosene-lamp  I  guess  there  ain't  any 
thing  in  partic'lar  t'  turn. 

"  You'll  bunk  in  the  station,  Mr.  Hardy,  I  s'pose. 
I  did  at  first.  Xow,  I've  got  a  house  over  in  th'  town. 
You  can  feed  with  us  if  you  want  to — an'  I  guess  my 
wife  won't  be  sorry  to  have  somebody  t'  talk  to.  She 
can't  get  th'  talkin'  hang  of  th'  language,  she  says — 
but  I  guess  her  real  trouble  is  she  won't  try.  I  got  a 
teacher,  you  see,  an'  I  learned  good  enough  t'  talk  all 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  231 

I  wanted  in  six  months.  You  speak  th'  language,  I 
s'pose  ? " 

"  I  can  worry  along,"  Hardy  answered. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  all  right,  then — at  least  as  right  as 
anybody  can  be  in  such  a  hole  as  Santa  Maria.  I  don't 
know  where  I'd  find  a  white  man's  dog,  let  alone  a 
white  man,  that  Vd  stay  here  if  he  wasn't  paid  to. 
Come  along  t'  th.'  station  now,  an'  we'll  attend  t'  th' 
transfer.  An'  then  we'll  go  over  t'  th'  house  an'  have 
somethin'  t'  eat.  I  can't  promise  you  much,  but  it'll 
be  th'  best  that's  t'  be  had  about  here."  Turning  to 
one  of  the  group  of  boys  collected  about  the  locomo 
tive,  he  added  :  u  Hello,  there,  you  Jose,  anda  a  la  Se- 
norci  y  dele  yo  tenyo  el  Senor  Supermtendcnte  y  otro 
cdballero  para  la  comida" 

The  superintendent  declined  this  hospitable  offer. 
He  was  going  farther  down  the  line,  he  said,  and  could 
not  stop. 

Hardy  rapidly  was  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  in 
sizing  this  man  up  he  had  made  a  mistake.  From  the 
standpoint  of  the  frontier  his  manners  were  the  em 
bodiment  of  politeness.  He  was  frank  and  he  was  hos 
pitable.  It  was  a  pleasant  surprise,  moreover,  to  find 
that  there  was  an  American  woman  in  the  outfit.  Ex 
cepting  casual  talks  with  she  Greasers,  who  did  not 
count,  Hardy  scarcely  had  said  a  dozen  words  to  a 
woman  during  the  whole  of  the  past  three  years.  Alto 
gether  he  found  the  prospect  of  a  bearable  existence  in 
Santa  Maria  enlarging  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner. 
Unless  some  row  broke  out  about  the  waste  of  wood  at 
the  pump,  which  he  was  beginning  to  think  was  not 
likely,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  fairly 


232  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

comfortable  in  this  little  Mexican  town.  The  presence  of 
an  abnormal  number  of  hard  characters  did  not  bother 
him.  Having  that  lofty  contempt  for  Greaser  toughs 
that  characterizes  the  frontier  American,  he  was  not  at 
all  afraid  that  he  could  not  hold  his  own.  All  that  he 
would  have  to  guard  against  were  knife-thrusts  in  the 
back  and  shots  in  the  dark.  He  had  been  successful  at 
various  times  in  the  past  in  taking  precautions  against 
annoyances  of  this  nature,  and  he  felt  reasonably  confi 
dent  that  he  could  continue  to  take  adequate  precau 
tions  against  them  in  the  future. 

The  locomotive  watered  at  the  tank  and  came  on  to 
the  station.  When  the  transfer  of  valuable  property 
was  completed,  the  superintendent  entered  his  car,  and 
the  special  pulled  out  for  the  southward.  Hardy  and 
Barwood  watched  it  sliding  away  down  the  track,  the 
steam  rising  faintly  in  the  hot  air,  and  a  long  trail  of 
black  smoke  hanging  almost  motionless  above  the  lines 
of  rails. 

"  I'll  go  over  t'  th'  house  an'  see  about  dinner,"  Bar 
wood  said.  "  I  guess  my  wife  understood  what  Jose 
told  her;  but  she  ain't  sharp  about  th'  language,  an' 
maybe  she  didn't.  There'll  be  nothin'  t'  do  till  th'  4.10 
passes,  so  you  can  fix  yourself.  You've  got  blankets,  I 
see,  an'  you'll  find  a  cot  in  th'  inside  room.  There's  a 
basin  there,  too,  an'  I'll  send  one  o'  these  lazy  devils 
down  t'  th'  tank  t'  bring  you  a  bucket  of  water.  I'll 
come  back  for  you  in  half  an  hour  or  so,  or  send  one  of 
th'  boys  over.  It'll  be  a  little  less  like  hell  for  hotness 
in  here  if  you'll  open  that  back  door.  I  don't  believe 
you've  ever  been  in  a  hotter  place  'an  Santa  Maria;  I 
never  have.  But  there's  one  good  thing  about  it,  it's 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  233 

always  cool  at  niglit — gets  cool  right  away  after  th' 
sun  sets,  when  th'  wind  begins  t'  blow  clown  from  th' 
hills." 

Barwood  walked  off  through  the  hot  sunshine. 
Hardy  carried  his  roll  of  blankets,  and  the  battered 
black  oilcloth  bag  that  held  the  remainder  of  his  per 
sonal  belongings,  into  the  inner  room  ;  opened  the  back 
door,  and  tried  to  fancy  that  the  waves  of  heat  which 
slowly  drifted  in  at  one  door  and  out  at  the  other  made 
an  atmosphere  a  trifle  less  baking  than  that  of  the  solid 
heat  outside.  Pie  seated  himself  on  a  rickety  chair  and 
lighted  a  pipe.  Presently  a  boy  brought  the  promised 
bucket  of  water.  It  was  lukewarm  ;  but  washing  even 
in  lukewarm  water  was  refreshing.  In  the  course  of 
half  an  hour  the  boy  came  again  and  said  that  dinner 
was  ready.  Hardy  closed  and  locked  the  doors  arid  fol 
lowed  him.  The  ground  was  hot  beneath  his  feet. 
The  weight  of  the  hot  air  through  which  he  walked  op 
pressed  him.  Over  the  broad  stretch  of  cactus-covered 
plain  the  rays  of  heat  reflected  from  the  ground  rose 
shimmering. 

The  boy  led  the  way  to  an  addbe  house  that  stood 
beside  the  partly  ruined  chape*!.  It  had  been  the  priest's 
house  in  the  time  when  a  priest  had  ministered  regularly 
in  Santa  Maria,  and  stood  upon  the  very  site  of  the  little 
hut  in  which  the  first  of  the  Mission  Fathers  had  dwelt 
three  centuries  and  more  before.  It  was  larger  and  in 
better  repair  than  the  houses  near  by,  and  it  possessed 
the  further  dignity  of  a  small  window  set  high  up  in 
the  side  wall  and  protected  by  wooden  bars.  As  he 
passed  beneath  this  window  Hardy  distinctly  heard 
these  words : 


234:  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

" an'  if  you  open  your  fool  mouth  an'  let  out  a 

single  word,  I'll  knife  you !  " 

This  curious  utterance  fell  upon  his  ears  so  suddenly 
that  he  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  house  before  he 
fairly  had  grasped  the  meaning  of  it.  "  Por  aqvi,  Se- 
nor"  said  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  open  door.  The 
sound  of  his  footsteps  must  have  been  heard  inside,  for 
as  he  reached  the  doorway  Bar  wood  met  him. 

"  Hot  enough  for  you  comin'  across  ?  Dinner's 
ready.  My  wife's  just  cleanin'  herself.  Here  she  is 
now.  Mr.  Hardy,  let  me  make  you  acquainted — 

"  What  th'  h— 1's  th'  matter  with  you  now  ? " 

This  abrupt  break  in  Mr.  Barwood's  formal  intro 
duction,  and  still  more  abrupt  transition  to  his  customary 
vigorous  colloquial  manner,  were  not  without  cause  ;  for 
the  woman  advancing  toward  them  from  the  inside  room 
— whom  Hardy,  coming  from  the  glaring  sunshine  into 
the  scantily  lighted  house,  saw  but  dimly — gave  a  cry  of 
fright  or  surprise,  and  then,  pressing  her  hands  upon  her 
breast,  sank  down  into  a  chair. 

In  a  moment  Hardy  saw  clearly,  but  he  did  not  rec 
ognize  her.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him  and  spoke  : 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  John  ? " 

Her  eyes  had  not  changed,  nor  had  her  voice ; 
though  the  tone  of  sorrow  in  it  was  strange  to  him.  It 
was  Mary  Wade. 

"  Mary  !  You ! "  was  all  that  he  could  say. 

"  Well,  there  don't  seem  t'  be  no  very  drivin'  need 
of  my  introducin'  you,"  Barwood  struck  in.  "  Knowed 
each  other  back  in  th'  States,  I  s'pose.  Like  enough 
you're  the  man  Mary  told  me  she  shook  just  afore  she 
come  West.  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  t'  th'  matter 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  235 

when  she  told  me  about  it,  for  I  got  her,  all  th'  same  ;  an' 
I  sha'n't  pay  much  attention  to  it  now,  for  I've  got  her 
still.  An'  I  won't  say  which  of  us  has  th'  most  t'  be 
thankful  for,  either.— Mary,  when  you  think  you've 
looked  like  a  stuck  pig  long  enough,  just  get  up,  will 
you,  an'  let's  have  dinner.'' 

Hardy  felt  the  blood  come  up  into  his  face,  and  his 
hands  closed  into  fists ;  but  a  look  from  Mary  made  him 
restrain  his  strong  desire  to  knock  Barwood  down  and 
then  kick  him. 

"It — it  was  such  a  surprise,  "Will,"  she  said,  speak 
ing  in  a  humble  tone  that  increased  Hardy's  pugnacity. 
"  I  never  expected  to  see  Mr.  Hardy  out  here,  you 
know,  and  his  coming  in  suddenly  that  way  upset  me. 
I'm  all  right  now  " — she  was  very  white,  and  she  rose 
slowly  and  with  difficulty.  "  We'll  have  dinner  right 
away.  I'm  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting."  She  walked,  a 
little  unsteadily,  to  the  stove  that  stood  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  and  thence  brought  the  dinner  to  the  table. 

"  It's  not  much  of  a  dinner,  Mr.  Hardy,"  she  said, 
with  an  obvious  effort  to  make  talk,  "  not  like  what  we 
used  to  have  at  home  ;  there's  not  much  of  anything 
down  here  that  seems  like  home.  Have  you  heard 
from  home  lately  ?  " 

The  shock  of  this  meeting  had  been  more  severe  to 
Hardy,  even,  than  it  had  been  to  Mary.  Save  that  his 
rough  life  had  roughened  him  a  little,  she  saw  him  un 
changed.  But  the  change  that  Hardy  saw  in  her  was  a 
pitiable  one.  All  her  freshness  and  look  of  youth  had 
gone  from  her.  She  was  pale  and  thin  and  worn.  He 
had  thought  of  her  always  as  the  very  embodiment  of 
neatness,  but  now  her  dress  was  careless  and  her  beau- 


236  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

tiful  gold-brown  hair  was  knotted  anyhow  upon  her 
head.  Seeing  her  thus,  Hardy  found  added  to  the 
moral  wrench  given  him  by  this  sudden  rousing  of  a 
sorrow  that  he  had  believed  was  dead,  the  keen  pain 
that  came  of  knowing  that  only  through  bitter  trials  of 
flesh  and  spirit  could  she  have  been  so  changed.  And 
there  was  great  pathos  to  him  in  her  dwelling  so  strongly 
on  that  word  "  home."  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
could  control  himself  sufficiently  to  speak.  But  he  per 
ceived  that  she  was  right  in  forcing  commonplace  talk, 
and  he  tried  to  help  her.  Barwood  maintained  an  ugly 
silence. 

"  It  isn't  much  like  the  "Wyoming  Valley  down  here, 
and  that's  a  fact,"  Hardy  said,  trying  to  speak  with 
heartiness.  "But  I've  been  around  in  these  parts  so 
long  now — in  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  you  know — 
that  I've  got  pretty  wrell  used  to  it.  And  I've  got  to 
liking  the  Mexicans,  too.  They're  lazy  and  dirty,  and 
a  good  many  of  'em  are  hard  cases,  I  know ;  but  there's 
something  pleasant  about  them,  for  all.  You  ought  to 
learn  the  language.  It  makes  all  the  difference  in  get 
ting  along  with  them  when  you  know  the  language. 
Your  husband  tells  me  that  he  got  a  teacher.  Now, 
why  don't  you  get  a  teacher  too  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Mary  answered,  speaking  slowly.  "  My 
husband  did  get  a — teacher — "  She  stopped  suddenly, 
as  Barwood  shot  a  look  at  her  across  the  table.  Hardy 
did  not  see  this  by-play.  Then  she  went  on  :  "  "Well, 
there's  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say,  and  maybe  I'll  try. 
But  I'm  not  good  for  much  at  study  nowadays,  I'm 
afraid.  I  don't  believe  that  even  'Squire  Kambo  would 
think  that  I  was  fit  to  be  a  school-mistress  now,  Mr. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  237 

Hardy."  She  tried  to  smile  as  she  said  this,  but  her 
lips  quivered. 

"  What  good  beans  these  are  !  " — Hardy  was  rather 
desperate — "  they're  as  good  as  the  Mexicans  cook  them, 
Frijoles  are  about  the  best  thing  the  Mexicans  turn  out, 
according  to  my  mind.  You  oughtn't  to  call  yourself 
stupid  when  you  can  cook  beans  so  well,  Ma — Mrs. 
Barwood." 

"She  didn't  cook  'em,''  Barwood  interposed.  "  One 
of  our — a  Mexican  friend  of  ours  sent  'em  in  to  us. 
Mary's  not  a  bad  cook,  but  only  a  Mexican  can  cook 
beans  as  good  as  these.  Take  some  more." 

"  I'm  glad,  anyway,  Mrs.  Barwood,  that  you've  got 
some  Mexican  friends,"  Hardy  went  on.  "  It  must 
make  things  ever  so  much  pieasanter  for  you,  even  if 
you  don't  speak  the  language.  Their  sending  things  in 
this  way  is  just  like  the  Mexicans.  They  certainly  are 
a  good-natured  lot,  just  as  I  was  saying." 

Mary  was  about  to  reply,  when  another  look  from 
her  husband— Hardy  saw  it  this  time — made  her  re 
main  silent.  There  was  an  awkward  pause. 

Hardy  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  open  door. 
Mary  sat  facing  it.  Suddenly  he  saw  that  she  was 
growing  pale.  At  the  same  moment  he  heard  a  foot 
step,  and  then  some  one  called — the  voice  was  very 
sweet  and  soft — "  Guillermo  !  " 

Hardy  turned  involuntarily,  and  the  sight  of  the 
woman  whom  he  saw  standing  in  the  doorway  fairly 
took  away  his  breath.  She  was  one  of  those  magnifi 
cent  creatures  who  not  infrequently  are  met  with  among 
the  common  people  of  Mexico  :  a  typical  descendant  of 
the  sturdy  Spaniards  of  the  sixteenth  century  (very  dif- 


238  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ferent  from  the  degenerate  race  that  peoples  Spain  to 
day)  and  of  the  softer  race  whom  the  Spaniards  con 
quered  in  Mexico.  She  was  tall,  vigorous,  stately ;  but 
her  strong,  free  action  of  body  and  limb  was  full  of 
grace,  and  her  stately  air  was  softened  by  a  seducing 
tenderness.  As  she  stood  there  in  the  doorway — partly 
in  shadow  and  partly  in  sunlight — the  large,  beautiful 
lines  of  her  figure  standing  out  sharply  against  the  glar 
ing  background  of  the  sun-bathed  adobe  wall  of  the  old 
church,  one  bare  arm  half  raised,  her  body  partly  turned 
as  she  started  back  on  seeing  a  stranger,  she  seemed  to 
Hardy  less  a  real  Avoman  than  a  woman  in  a  bewilder 
ing  dream. 

The  vision  lasted  only  for  a  moment.  "  Go  now, 
Juana,"  Barwood  said  in  Spanish  ;  and  added  :  "  Later." 

When  Hardy  turned  again  Mary's  face  no  longer 
was  white ;  it  was  as  red  as  fire.  She  rose  from  the  table 
hastily  and  went  into  the  inner  room.  Barwood  and 
Hardy  finished  their  meal  in  silence.  As  they  got  up 
from  the  table  Barwood  said,  with  rather  a  forced  air 
of  ease  :  "  Try  a  cigar  rito  ?  They're  pretty  good 
ones." 

"  No,  I'm  obliged.  I  guess  I'll  stick  to  a  pipe," 
Hardy  answered. 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose  that's  th'  way  you  feel  now.  I  used 
t'  feel  that  way  about  cigarritos  myself.  But  now  that 
I've  fairly  got  into  th'  way  of  'em  I  don't  care  much  t' 
smoke  anythin'  else.  It's  a  good  plan  when  you're  in  a 
foreign  country  t'  try  t'  do  what's  done  by  th'  folks  that 
live  there.  I  can't  go  all  th'  Mexican  ways,  but  I  try  t' 
take  in  as  many  of  'em  as  I  can." 

"  Yes,"  Hardy  answered,  dryly,  "  so  I  see." 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  239 

Barwood  gave  him  a  sliarp  look,  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  disposed  to  give  him  a  sharp  answer ;  but  he 
thought  better  of  it. 

"  I'm  comin'  over  t'  tli'  station  after  a  while,  an'  then 
we  can  have  a  talk  an'  settle  things.  Things  is  pretty 
much  as  I  left  'em  at  th'  station  when  I  moved  out,  and 
I  guess  you'll  find  what  you  want.  Cut  if  there's  any 
thing  you  want  that  ain't  there,  let  me  know  ;  it's  likely 
I  won't  have  it  either — but  I  might.  "We  don't  go  in 
much  for  style  down  here,  an'  you'll  have  t'  get  along 
th'  best  you  can." 

Hardy  was  puzzled  by  this  fresh  display  of  friendli 
ness.  It  bothered  him  a  little,  too,  for  the  thing  that 
he  most  wanted  to  do  just  then  was  to  get  Barwood  off 
somewhere  and  mash  him  into  a  jelly  and  then  shoot 
him.  It  was  annoying  to  find  this  generous  intention 
checked  in  the  way  that  Barwood  was  checking  it.  No 
body  feels  like  thrashing  a  man,  still  less  like  sending  a 
bullet  through  him,  when  he  really  seems  to  be  trying, 
according  to  his  lights,  to  be  amiable.  Hardy  only  could 
hope  that  this  ill-timed  display  of  good-will  would  dis 
appear  Avhen  they  were  alone  together.  As  he  lighted 
his  pipe  and  turned  to  leave  the  house,  Mary  came  into 
the  room  again.  She  had  regained  her  composure,  and 
when  she  spoke  it  was  in  a  quiet,  even  voice. 

"  Will  tells  me  that  you  are  going  to  board  with  us, 
Mr.  Hardy.  You'll  find  it  pretty  poor  board,  I'm 
afraid  ;  but  I  don't  feel  as  bad  about  it  as  I  would  if  I 
didn't  know  that  it'll  be  better  than  anybody  else  here 
can  give  you — at  least,  I  mean,  it'll  be  more  like  what 
vou're  used  to  getting  in  the  States."  There  was  a 

•/  O  O 

touch  of  apology  in  her  tone,  and  a  half -deprecating 


240  STORIES  OP  OLD   NEW   SPAIN. 

look  toward  her  husband  as  she  made  this  correction. 
"  We  have  supper  at  six." 

She  came  closer  to  him  as  she  spoke,  and  as  her  hus 
band  turned  to  pick  up  a  box  of  matches  from  the  table 
she  pressed  a  scrap  of  crumpled  paper  into  his  hand 
When  he  opened  this  paper  he  read :  "  Don't  have 
words  with  him.  It  will  only  make  things  worse  for 
me." 

Y. 

HARDY  walked  back  through  the  blazing  heat  to  the 
station  and — after  taking  a  look  at  his  revolver  to  see 
that  it  was  in  good  working  order  and  that  all  the  cham 
bers  were  loaded — settled  himself  with  a  pipe  to  await 
Barwood's  coming. 

This  was  the  time  of  day  when  the  sun  was  most 
powerful  and  when  all  nature  seemed  to  be  crushed 
into  stillness  by  the  heavy  weight  of  heat.  Not  a  sign 
of  animal  life  anywhere  was  to  be  seen.  The  doors  of  the' 
adobe  houses  were  shut  tight,  and  within  them,  in  cool 
ness  and  darkness,  their  owners  lay  slumbering.  The 
very  dogs  had  betaken  themselves  to  such  shelter  from 
the  sun  as  they  could  find  in  the  chaparral  or  beneath  the 
bluff,  and  were  slumbering  too.  The  pine  boards  of  the 
station  sent  out  a  resinous  smell.  The  iron  of  the  railway 
was  blistering  hot.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred.  Over 
the  great  plain  hung  a  shimmering  haze  made  up  of  the 
direct  and  reflected  rays  of  heat.  But  there  was  prom 
ise  of  coolness  later  on,  for  over  on  the  foot-hills  little 
whirlwinds  of  dust,  remolinos,  already  were  beginning 
to  form — the  advance-guard  of  the  fresh,  cool  wind  that 
would  sweep  down  from  the  mountains  when  the  set- 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  241 

ting  of  the  sun  should  bring  to  an  end  the  long,  hot 
day. 

Hardy  did  not  notice  the  heat.  He  was  thinking  of 
Mary,  and  a  great  sorrow  for  her  had  taken  possession 
of  his  heart.  Misery  she  certainly  had  brought  into  his 
life ;  but  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  misery  that 
had  come  into  her  own.  It  was  bad  enough,  he  thought, 
that  she  should  have  been  married  to  Barwood  at  his 
best — whatever  that  might  have  been — but  that  she 
should  be  tied  to  Barwood  now  seemed  altogether  hor 
rible.  As  the  picture  of  the  Mexican  girl  standing  in 
the  doorway  came  before  his  mind,  he  ground  out  a 
curse  between  his  teeth.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
lie  did  not  see  what  he  could  do — unless  he  shot  Bar- 
wood  off-hand— to  make  her  case  better.  She  was  right, 
he  perceived,  in  warning  him  not  to  fall  to  wrangling 
with  her  husband.  This  was  a  matter  in  which  half 
way  measures  would  be  worse  than  useless.  Between 
the  extremes  of  killing  Barwood  and  of  keeping  up  a 
show  of  friendly  relations  with  him  there  was  no  safe 
course.  Much  as  there  was  tempting  about  the  more 
radical  of  these  lines  of  conduct,  he  decided  that  for 
the  present  Mary's  interests  would  be  best  served  by 
not  adopting  it.  For  some  reason  that  he  did  not  at 
all  understand,  Barwood  evidently  was  disposed  to  avoid 
a  rupture  with  him  ;  all  that  was  necessary,  therefore, 
was  that  he  should  hold  himself  well  in  hand  and  not 
make  one  until  he  could  make  one  that  would  be  de 
cisive  and  final.  The  wisdom  of  present  temporizing 
was  enforced,  further,  by  the  fact  that  until  he  could  see 
Mary  alone  and  talk  freely  with  her  he  could  not  arrange 
any  certain  plan  for  her  relief.  Yes,  he  must  wait. 
16 


242  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

"While  he  was  working  the  matter  over  in  his  mind 
he  sat  on  the  one  chair  that  the  station  possessed,  tip 
ping  back  on  its  hind-legs,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
head,  smoking  slowly.  In  an  absent,  half-seeing  way 
his  eyes  ranged  over  the  group  of  adobe  houses,  the 
great  sunny  plain  beyond,  the  gray-blue  mountains  which 
formed  the  horizon  on  the  east.  It  was  odd,  he  thought, 
that  all  his  wanderings  should  have  ended  in  bringing 
him  to  the  very  woman  whom  he  had  tried  to  get 
farthest  away  from.  He  traced  back  in  his  mind  the 
chain  of  accidents,  very  trifling  most  of  them,  which 
had  moved  him  from  place  to  place  in  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico,  and  which  finally  had  led  him  to  this  little 
town  of  Santa  Maria,  where  Mary  was.  Was  there 
such  a  thing  as  Fate  ?  he  thought. 

After  a  while  he  saw  Barwood  come  out  of  one  of 
the  adobe  houses — not  his  own — and  walk  toward  the 
station.  Hardy  moved  his  chair  to  the  other  door. 
He  did  not  want  Barwood  to  know  that  he  had  seen 
him  come  out  of  that  other  house. 

"  Hot  enough  for  you  ? "  Barwood  asked  as  he  en 
tered  the  station 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it'll  do  for  the  present,"  Hardy  an 
swered. 

"  How  about  things  ?  Can  I  do  any  thin'  t'  settle 
you?" 

"  No,  things  are  all  right.  I'll  get  along ;  much 
obliged." 

Barwood  seated  himself  on  an  empty  nail-keg — the 
one  other  piece  of  furniture,  excepting  the  table  on 
which  was  placed  the  telegraph  instrument,  that  the  sta 
tion  possessed — and  rolled  a  cigarrito.  He  did  this 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  243 

deftly,  and  Hardy  noticed  that  tlie  thumb  and  forefinger 
of  his  right  hand  were  as  yellow  from  smoke  as  a  Mexi 
can's.  He  drew  a  paper  box  of  double-headed  wax 
matches  from  his  pocket,  struck  one,  lighted  his  ciyar- 
rito,  carefully  returned  the  unused  end  of  the  match  to 
the  box,  and  then  smoked  for  a  while  in  silence.  At 
last  he  said,  looking  away  from  Hardy  as  he  spoke,  and 
shifting  his  legs  a  little  uneasily  :  "  I  guess,  Mr.  Hardy, 
you  an'  me'd  better  have  a  talk." 

"  Yes,"  Hardy  answered,  "  maybe  we  had." 

"About — about  Mary,  you  know.  Mary  tells  me 
that  you  really  are  the  man  she  shook,  back  in  the 
States.  I  sized  it  up  that  way,  you  know,  on  sight.  I 
guess  she  played  it  pretty  low  down  on  you." 

"  Xever  mind  about  that.  It's  all  over.  It  was 
over  three  years  ago.  I  \vas  a  good  deal  of  a  fool  my 
self  about  that  time.  I  ought  to  have  begun  by  asking 
her  if  she  was  free." 

"  Excuse  me,  she  ought  to  have  begun  by  tellin'  you 
that  she  had  another  man  on  her  string.  I'd  better  tell 
you  just  how  things  between  me  and  Mary  begun.  You 
see,  I  was  fireman  to  th'  hoistm'-engine  out  at  Sugar 
Xotch — at  Wilkesbarre,  you  know — an'  Mary  was  livin' 
with  her  step-mother  an'  just  beginnin'  t'  teach  school. 
I  guess  she  had  a  mean  time  of  it  at  home.  Her  father 
was  dead,  an'  from  what  I  saw  of  her  step-mother  I 
didn't  take  much  stock  in  her.  She  was  a  tough  one, 
an'  no  mistake.  So  Mary  was  more'n  glad  t'  take  up 
with  me.  I  guess  she  did  love  me — I  loved  her,  I  know. 
So  I  told  her  I'd  go  West  an'  make  some  money  ;  an' 
just  then  she  got  that  teachin'  job  down  in  your  town, 
an'  was  able  t'  get  away  from  her  step-mother.  So 


244  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

things  sort  of  suited  all  round.  So  I  come  out  to  Fort 
"Worth  an'  got  a  pretty  good  job  as  engineer — I'd 
learned  pretty  well  how  to  run  an  engine — an'  things  in 
gen'ral  looked  promisin'. 

"  Well,  Mary  kep'  writin'  reg'lar,  tellin'  me  she  was 
all  right,  an'  makin'  fun  of  th'  boys  bein'  in  love  with 
her.  She  used  t'  write  a  good  deal  about  you,  sayin' 
you  was  like  a  brother  to  her.  Then  her  letters  begun 
t'  get  sort  of  queer ;  an'  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  got 
one  askin'  me  if  I'd  marry  her  right  off  if  she'd  come 
out  t'  me.  I  struck  my  boss  for  more  pay,  an'  got  it,  an' 
wrote  back  I  would,  an'  glad  to.  So  out  she  come,  an' 
we  got  married.  She  looked  mis'rable,  an'  said  she'd 
been  sick.  Somehow  she  wasn't  like  herself,  an'  we 
didn't  get  along  very  well.  She  sort  of  moped,  like  as 
if  she  had  th'  toothache  ;  an'  was  kind  of  high-strung  an' 
offish,  as  if  I  wasn't  good  enough  for  her.  Things  got 
sort  of  worse  an'  worse,  an'  now  an'  then  I'd  go  off 
with  th'  boys  an'  try  t'  forget  what  a  cussed  mean  time 
I  was  havin'  at  home.  She  didn't  like  that,  an'  was 
downright  ugly  when  I'd  come  home  a  little  sewed  up. 
At  last  she  told  me  I  was  a  drunken  brute  an'  she  was 
sorry  she'd  married  me,  'specially  as  she  could  'a'  got  a 
better  man.  She  meant  you,  I  guess.  Well,  we  didn't 
have  a  pleasant  time  that  day,  for  I  just  got  mad  an' 
talked  square  up  to  her.  After  that  things  was  a  good 
deal  worse.  I  took  t'  goin'  with  th'  boys  more'n  ever, 
an'  pretty  soon  I  found  myself  fired  out  of  my  job. 
Mary  said  she'd  been  expectin'  it ;  an'  I  told  her  that  th' 
one  most  t'  blame  for  't  was  herself — an'  that  was  just 
th'  everlastin'  truth. 

"  Well,  we  pulled  out  of  Fort  Worth,  an'  I  braced 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  245 

up  an'  I  got  another  job — down  in  San  Anton'  that  was. 
Then  it  was  pretty  much  th'  same  thing  over  again. 
Then  we  went  up  to  Waco,  an'  then  across  to  Harrison, 
an'  then  down  t'  Palestine,  an'  to  Houston,  an'  to  Galves- 
ton.  I  had  good  jobs  in  ev'ry  one  of  them  towns,  an'  I 
got  fired  out  of  'em  all.  An'  at  last  I  got  this  job  here. 

I  guess  you  can  see  for  yourself  what  a  d n  mean  job 

this  looks  like,  an'  can  guess  it  must  'a'  been  pretty  cold 
weather  for  me  when  I  agreed  t'  take  it.  But  in  some 

o 

ways — that  maybe  we'll  talk  about  later — it's  turned  out 
better  than  I  sized  it  up  to.  For  one  thing,  there  ain't 
any  boys  here  for  me  t'  tear  around  with,  an'  when  I 
get  set  up  on  mescal  there  ain't  anybody  t'  report  me — 
an'  it  don't  make  no  difference  t'  anybody,  either,  's 
long  as  I  keep  my  tank  full. 

"  Xow,  that's  th'  whole  business.  I  wanted  t'  talk 
things  out  square  with  you,  an  I've  done  it.  Maybe, 
now  you  know  what  kind  of  a  life  Mary's  led  me,  you're 
not  as  sorry  as  you  was  that  when  we  both  was  snappin' 
at  her  she  hung  fire  with  you  an'  went  off  with  me. 

"  What  I  want  t'  say  now  is :  I'm  ready  to  try  t' 
make  things  as  good  as  I  can  for  you  here,  but  I  want 
you  t'  play  square  with  me.  If  I  happen  to  get  set 
up  sometimes,  don't  you  run  yourself  into  a  shooting- 
match — for  that's  what  it'll  come  to,  an'  d n  quick, 

too — by  reportin'  me  ;  an'  don't  you  believe  th'  whole 
of  th'  pack  of  lies  about  me  that  Mary's  loaded  up  with, 
an'  is  goin'  t'  fire  off  at  you  as  soon  as  she  gets  th' 
chance.  Let's  fix  things  to  run  along  easy  this  way  ;  an' 
after  a  while,  when  I  know  you  better,  maybe  I  can 
show  you  some  things  about  Santa  Maria  that'll  make 
you  think  'tain't  as  bad  as  it  looks.  It  ain't  always  in 


246  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

th'  best-looking  places  that  there's  th'  most  money  t'  be 
made.  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it  a  go  ?  " 

Hardy's  pipe  was  out.  He  lighted  it  and  smoked 
for  a  while  before  answering. 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  and  I  need  have  any  row  in 
particular,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  won't  make  any  prom 
ises  until  I  look  around  a  little  and  see  how  things  are. 
But  you  needn't  worry  about  my  reporting  you  so  long 
as  you  keep  your  tank  full,  and  don't  let  anything  get 
wrong  with  the  pump.  If  you  don't  do  your  work  I'll 
report  you,  dead  sure ;  and  if  you  come  around  after 
shooting-matches,  I'll  give  you  all  you  want,  and  some 
to  spare.  About  the  size  of  it  is,  that  unless  you  make 
a  row  there  won't  be  one.  Does  that  suit  you  ?  " 

"  Y-e-e-e-s,"  Barwood  answered,  "  that's  fair  enough 
t'  start  with.  I  guess  you  an'  me'll  get  along — unless 
Mary  won't  let  us.  I'll  do  my  part,  anyway.  !N"ow,  I 
must  go  down  t'  th'  pump.  Th'  4.10,  th'  freight,  '11  be 
along  pretty  soon.  There's  some  bullion  comin'  down  t' 
day  from  San  Gabriel,  but  it  don't  go  up  on  th'  freight. 
It  goes  up  in  th'  express-car  to-night.  This  bit  of 
shafting  goes  on  th'  freight.  Here's  the  way-book. 
An'  just  tell  Sanders,  will  you,  t'  tell  Ward  t'  send  down 
my  spare  connectin'-rod.  Tell  him  there'll  be  th'  devil 
t'  pay  here  at  th'  pump  some  day  if  he  don't  send  it." 

Hardy  stood  at  the  door  of  the  station  and  watched 
Barwood  as  he  walked  up  the  track  to  the  tank,  and  so 
beyond  it  down  into  the  valley  of  the  stream.  Presently 
the  steady  throbbing  of  the  pump  sounded  through  the 
hot  stillness.  Hardy's  mind  was  so  full  of  other  things 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  since  the  tank  was  full 
there  was  no  reason  for  keeping  the  pump  going.  He 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  247 

seated  himself  again  on  the  rickety  chair  and  smoked 
slowly.  What  Barwood  had  told  him — and  he  did  not 
doubt  that  in  a  general  way  Barwood  had  spoken  the 
truth — enabled  him  to  see  pretty  clearly  what  had  hap 
pened  :  how  Mary,  stung  by  anger,  and  no  doubt  also 
stirred  by  the  thought  that  she  had  not  treated  her  first 
lover  fairly,  had  urged  the  hasty  marriage  as  a  sort  of 
reparation,  and  in  the  hope  that  such  decisive  action 
would  bring  her  calmness  and  rest  And  he  could  see 
how  the  same  weakness  of  nature  that  had  brought  her 
into  such  false  relations  with  himself,  and  that  had  hur 
ried  her  into  this  atonement,  had  prevented  her  from 
accepting  as  final  the  finality  that  she  herself  had 
brought  about.  Barwood  certainly  had  a  good  deal  to 
answer  for ;  but  Hardy  was  forced  to  the  conviction 
that  Mary  was  largely  responsible  for  the  condition  that 
Barwood  was  reduced  to,  and,  consequently,  for  her  own 
unhappiness.  It  was  curious,  he  thought,  that  this 
woman  should  have  succeeded  through  sheer  folly  in 
wrecking  the  lives  of  two  men. 

Yet  even  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  Mary  had  mainly 
herself  to  blame  for  the  evil  fate  that  had  overtaken 
her,  his  pity  for  her  was  most  keenly  aroused.  In  his 
otherwise  frank  talk  Barwood  had  not  touched  upon 
the  Mexican  girl — the  crudest  wrong  that  Mary  had 
suffered.  Hardy  had  refrained  from  forcing  the  talk 
in  this  direction,  for  he  doubted  his  ability,  should  this 
subject  be  touched  upon,  to  control  his  rage — and  he 
was  firmly  determined  to  stave  off  a  crisis  until  he 
could  act  decisively  for  Mary's  good.  That  a  crisis 
must  come,  and  must  come  soon,  he  fully  realized.  The 
situation  was  altogether  too  volcanic  to  be  lasting ;  and 


248  STORIES  OF  OLD   NEW  SPAIN. 

the  chances  seemed  to  be  strongly  in  favor  of  its  find 
ing  an  appropriately  energetic  culmination.  That  there 
would  be  some  shooting  in  it  struck  Hardy  as  highly 
probable,  and  he  found  this  probability  soothing.  He 
let  his  hand-  drop  to  his  hip  pocket  and  wondered  who 
would  come  out  on  top.  He  was  inclined  to  believe 
that  it  would  be  himself. 

The  arrival  of  the  up  train  cut  short  his  reverie.  A 
little  while  after  it  had  gone  up  the  line,  two  wagons 
loaded  with  bars  of  bullion  from  the  mine  at  San  Ga 
briel,  came  slowly  across  the  plain  along  the  dusty 
trail  to  the  station.  The  teamsters  leisurely  unhar 
nessed  their  mules,  drove  them  down  to  the  stream 
for  water,  hobbled  them,  and  then,  in  the  same  leisurely 
fashion,  set  about  preparing  their  own  supper  and  mak 
ing  themselves  comfortable  for  the  night.  The  head  of 
the  outfit  was  an  American,  who  walked  into  the  sta 
tion  and  smoked  a  friendly  pipe  with  the  new  station- 
master  while  this  work  was  going  on. 

"  Glad  to  see  somebody  here  who  looks  like  a  white 
man,"  he  said.  "  What's  gone  with  Barwood  ?  Fired 
out?" 

"  !N"o,  he's  still  at  the  pump.  I've  got  the  station^ 
and  general  charge." 

"  Pity  the  company  didn't  bounce  him  clean.  He's 
a  bad  lot." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you've  got  general  charge,  and  are  going 
to  stay  here,  you'll  find  out  all  about  him  before  long, 
so  I  needn't  tell  you.  But  keep  your  eye  open,  and 
look  out  'specially  for  his  Greaser  friends.  They  all 
stand  in  with  him,  and  he  stands  in  with  them.  He's 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  249 

got  the  Alcalde's  sister  for  a  sort  of  extra  wife,  I  b'lieve, 
and  things  are  pretty  rotten  generally.  Don't  you  trust 
any  of  'em  ;  and  keep  your  gun  where  you  can  get  at  it 
easy  all  the  time.  Just  come  from  the  States  ? " 

"  Xo — at  least  only  from  Texas." 

"  Oh,  that  all  ?  I  was  in  hopes  you  was  fresh  from 
the  States  and  had  some  news.  A  man  gets  sort  of 
homesick  for  news  from  the  States  down  in  these  un 
godly  parts.  I'm  a  Pennsylvania!!  myself,  born  in  Lan 
caster.  What  part  are  you  from  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  Pennsylvania!!,  too — born  in  Wilkesbarre." 

"  The  h— 1  you  say  !  Why,  d— n  it,  shake  !  That's 
too  good  for  anything.  Drink,  won't  you  ?  "  and  the 
teamster  energetically  shook  Hardy's  hand,  and  then 
extracted  the  beer-bottle  that  protruded  conspicuously 
from  his  coat  pocket,  and  tendered  it  with  a  hearty 
good-will.  "  It's  only  mescal"  he  said,  apologetically^ 
"  You  can't  buy  anything  fit  to  drink  down  here  with 
out  paying  more'n  your  life's  worth  for  it.  But  for 
mescal  this  ain't  bad."  And,  to  do  him  justice,  wrhen  his 
turn  at  the  bottle  came,  he  backed  his  opinion  in  an  emi 
nently  practical  way. 

"  So  you're  a  Wilkesbarre  man,  eh  ?  Barwood  comes 
from  there,  too.  Did  you  know  him  at  home  ?  " 

"  !N"o ;  I  only  lived  in  "Wilkesbarre  while  I  was  a 
boy.  I  lived  down  the  river  a  way.  I  never  laid  eyes 
on  Barwood  until  I  saw  him  here  to-day." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  you  haven't  missed  much.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you— now  I  find  we  come  from  the  same 

good  old  State,  you  and  me — that  he's  about  the  d dst 

dirtiest  dog  that  ever  I've  come  across.  He's  rung  in 
with  the  Greasers,  and  I  guess  counts  hisself  more 


250  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Greaser  now  than  white  man  :  if  he  don't  he  ought  to, 
for  that's  what  he  is.  Maybe  you  don't  know  that  this 
is  about  the  worst  smugglin'  hole  there  is  on  the  whole 
frontier  ?  Well,  it  is.  Barwood's  gone  into  smugglin' 
deep.  He  and  the  Alcalde  boss  things  between  'em,  I 
reckon,  and  do  a  big  business.  They're  in  the  horse 
and  cattle  line,  too — runnin'  off  stock  from  one  side  of 
the  river  and  sellin'  it  on  the  other,  you  know.  And 
unless  I'm  a  good  deal  further  out  than  I'm  apt  to  "be, 
that  party  that  raided  the  Las  Animas  ranch  last  month 
— when  old  Don  Manuel  Salazar  and  one  of  his  sons 
was  killed  in  cold  blood,  and  all  the  stock  stampeded, 
and  everything  about  the  place  worth  stealin'  cleaned 
out — came  right  from  here,  and  Barwood  was  along 
with  it. 

"  Now  you  know  about  how  things  stand  and  what 
you've  got  to  look  out  for.  I  judge  you  to  be,  from 
your  looks,  a  man  that  can  take  pretty  good  care  of  his- 
self ;  and  I  just  tell  you  that  to  keep  up  your  end  in 
this  hell-hole  of  a  Santa  Maria  you  need  to  be  that  kind  ! 
Don't  you  take  no  chances  at  all.  Keep  your  gun  ready, 
and  keep  your  eyes  all  around  you  all  the  time.  And 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  give  up  your  job. 
There's  not  enough  money  in  running  this  station  to 
pay  for  the  all-day  and  all-night  oneasiness  that  you've 
taken  a  contrac'  for — to  say  nothin'  of  findin'  yourself 
some  mornin'  laid  out  stiff,  with  knife-holes  all  over  you, 
and  most  of  your  head  blown  off.  You're  a  white  man, 

and  you  come  from  Pennsylvania,  and  you're  a  d d 

sight  too  good  to  be  killed  off  by  Greasers.  So  just  you 
take  my  advice,  and  quit." 

"  Well,  I  don't  calculate  on  being  here  long,"  Hardy 


SAINT   MARY  OF   THE  AXGELS.  251 

answered.  "  I  took  the  job  for  a  month,  though,  and  I 
guess  I'll  manage  to  stick  it  out.  I've  lived  around  in 
some  hard  places  in  my  time,  and  I've  managed  so  far, 
you  see,  to  keep  my  hair.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  all 
the  same,  for  what  you've  told  me.  Sometimes  you  can 
manage  better  when  you  know  just  how  things  stand. 
What's  your  mine  up  at  San  Gabriel  amount  to  ?  How 
does  your  ore  mill-run  ?  And  what  sort  of  a  streak 
have  you  got  \  " 

And  then  they  drifted  off  into  mining  talk,  and  the 
teamster  expatiated  with  a  pardonable  pride  upon  the 
brilliant  prospects — which  seemed  to  be  rather  at  odds 
with  the  present  condition — of  the  San  Gabriel  mine. 

At  six  o'clock  Hardy  locked  up  the  station  and 
walked  over  to  Barwood's  house  to  supper.  Half 
laughing  at  himself  while  he  did  it,  he  made  as  much  of 
a  toilet  as  the  circumstances  of  the  case  would  permit. 
His  resources  were  limited,  but  he  felt  rather  pleased 
with  the  result.  His  trousers  were  outside  of  his  boots, 
instead  of  being  tucked  into  them;  he  wore  a  coat;  a 
black  silk  handkerchief  was  knotted  under  the  rolling 
collar  of  his  flannel  shirt;  his  hands  and  face  were  as 
clean  as  soap  and  water  could  make  them,  and  his  crisp, 
black  hair  was  brushed  to  a  degree  of  preternatural 
smoothness.  And  there  came  over  him,  as  he  thus 
groomed  himself  that  he  might  be  pleasing  in  Mary's 
eyes,  something  of  the  old-time  feeling  that  had  pos 
sessed  him  as  he  made  himself  ready,  in  his  Sunday  best, 
for  those  Sunday  walks  during  that  happy  summer  that 
seemed  now  so  very,  very  long  ago.  How  bright,  how 
fresh  she  had  looked,  he  thought ;  how  free  she  had 
been  from  sorrow  and  from  care.  And  then  the  sharp 


252  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

contrast  between  her  carelessly  glad  past  life  and  the 
life  that  she  now  was  living — here  among  smugglers, 
thieves,  murderers,  very  likely,  with  even  her  right  of 
ownership  in  her  scoundrel  of  a  husband  openly  defied 
— struck  him  with  the  force  of  a  physical  blow.  For  a 
moment  the  purpose  came  into  his  mind  of  bringing  on 
the  shooting-match  with  Barwood  right  away,  and  so  in 
some  sort  righting  this  great  wrong.  He  gave  a  long 
sigh  as  his  reason  reasserted  itself,  and  compelled  him 
to  admit  that  he  must  wait. 

The  cool  winds  had  begun  to  come  down  from  the 
mountains,  and  Santa  Maria  was  aroused  from  its  hot 
lethargy.  As  Hardy  walked  through  the  town,  the 
doors  of  the  adobe  houses  stood  open  ;  men  lounged, 
smoking  in  the  doorways — hard  cases  they  looked  for 
the  most  part ;  women  were  bending  over  little  fires, 
preparing  the  evening  meal ;  children  frisked  about  and 
encouraged  the  fights  among  the  dogs ;  herds  of  goats 
came  up  slowly  from  the  river,  to  be  penned  for  the 
night  in  the  corrales,  wagging  their  heads  sagely,  as  the 
custom  of  goats  is.  There  was  an  air  of  calm,  of  pas 
toral  simplicity  about  the  town,  that  Hardy  was  keen 
witted  enough  to  recognize  was  in  rather  droll  contrast 
with  its  real  character. 

He  found  Barwood  seated  in  front  of  his  house,  on 
a  chair  tipped  back  against  the  wall,  smoking  one  of 
his  favorite  cigarritos. 

"  Take  a  seat  an'  set  down,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
soap  box  standing  on  end  on  the  other  side  of  the  door 
way.  "  Supper'll  be  ready  in  a  minute  or  two,  I  guess. 
This  is  th'  time  o'  day  that  Santa  Maria's  fit  t'  live  in — 
at  least,  as  fit  t'  live  in  as  such  a  hole  can  be  at  any 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  253 

time.  I  see  th'  San  Gabriel  outfit's  got  down.  When 
you  send  their  stuff  off  on  th'  night  train,  make  'em 
load  it  theirselves ;  an'  be  devilish  careful  that  th'  re 
ceipt  you  give  'em  an'  th'  way-bill  agree.  They're  a 
careless  lot,  an'  like  as  not  they'll  have  a  receipt  made 
out  for  more  bars  than  theyv'e  sent  down.  It  'ud  be 
just  like  'em.  There's  Mary  callin'.  Let's  go  in." 

Hardy  noticed,  as  he  entered  the  room,  that  it  had  a 
neater  air  than  at  dinner-time.  The  change  in  Mary's 
appearance  was  still  more  striking.  She  had  put  on  a 
print  gown,  fresh  and  cool-looking  ;  there  was  a  bow  of 
blue  ribbon  at  her  neck  and  another  in  her  beautiful 
hair — arranged  in  the  pretty  way  that  he  remembered 
so  well ;  her  eyes  had  lost  their  tired  look,  and  shone 
brightly,  and  in  her  cheeks  was  a  delicate  color.  She 
was  almost  her  old  self  again.  As  Hardy  caught  sight 
of  her  he  could  not  repress  a  start  of  surprise.  If  he 
had  felt  an  hour  before  only  that  his  love  for  her  was 
not  dead,  he  felt  now  that  it  was  most  vigorously  alive. 
She  came  forward  and  shook  hands  with  him.  There 
was  something  very  thrilling  in  the  touch  of  her  warm 
hand. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,  Mr.  Hardy,"  she  said. 
"  It  seems  quite  like  old  times." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  let  me  know  we  was  havin'  a 
party,"  Barwood  struck  in  before  Hardy  could  answer, 
u  I'd  'a'  put  on  a  dress  suit  an'  had  my  hair  curled. 
You  both  look  so  fine  that  I  don't  know  whether  I'd 
better  set  to  table  with  you.  Maybe  I'd  better  go  an' 
get  somethin'  t'  eat  where  the  folks  ain't  so  all-ilred 
dressed  up.  I  guess  I  wouldn't  have  t'  go  a  great  way 
t'  find  a  welcome,  neither." 


254  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said,  and  the  under, 
meaning  of  the  words — which  Hardy  did  not  under 
stand  for  a  moment — heightened  the  color  on  Mary's 
cheeks  and  drove  the  light  from  her  eyes. 

"  I — I  am  sorry,  "Will,"  she  said.  u  I  didn't  know 
you'd  mind.  You  used  to  like  me  in  this  dress.  Don't 
you  remember  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  but  it  was  a  good  while  ago,"  Barwood 
answered,  dryly.  "  But  I'll  eat  my  supper  all  th'  same, 
even  if  I  ain't  dressed  up  in  store-clothes.  Set  down, 
Mr.  Hardy.  Don't  mind  my  way  of  makin'  fun.  "We 
don't  go  in  much  for  fixin'  up  down  here,  an'  seein' 
you  and  Mary — 'specially  Mary — slingin'  so  much  style 
sort  of  got  away  with  me.  Looks  as  if  Mary'd  got  up  a 
reg'lar  party  supper,  too,  which  is  a  way  of  celebratin' 
this  joyous  occasion  that  I  tie  too,  for  sure.  So  let's  sail 
in  an'  have  a  good  time." 

But  the  celebration  of  the  joyous  occasion  was  not  a 
success.  Mary  had  been  doing  her  best  all  the  after 
noon  to  foster  a  foolish  fancy  that  she  was  back  in  the 
Wyoming  Valley,  and  that  Hardy  was  coming  to  supper 
with  her  at  'Squire  Rambo's,  as  he  used  to  come  in  the  old 
times.  She  had  made  a  sponge  cake — he  had  always  liked 
sponge  cake — and  had  stewed  some  tunas,  with  a  fla 
voring  of  lemon-juice,  to  take  the  place  of  his  favorite 
apple-sauce.  And  over  her  cooking,  and  the  thought 
of  who  the  cooking  was  for,  she  had  grown  so  light- 
hearted  that  the  darkness  of  the  present  for  a  little  space 
was  conquered  by  the  light  of  the  past.  All  this  light 
went  out  as  her  husband  spoke ;  his  threat  to  go  for  his 
supper  where  he  would  find  a  welcome  brought  the 
darkness  of  the  present  down  upon  her  again  like  a  pall. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE   AXGELS.  255 

As  Hardy,  less  quickly,  comprehended  the  mean 
ing  of  this  threat  and  the  prodigious  insolence  of  it,  his 
hands  clinched  and  he  set  his  teeth  hard.  For  him  also 
the  past  had  come  again  with  sight  of  Mary,  fresh  and 
beautiful,  looking  as  she  had  looked  when  he  gave  her 
the  love  that  now  he  knew  never  had  been  recalled. 
The  sudden  forcing  home  upon  him  by  her  husband's 
words  of  what  her  present  state  was ;  the  outrageous 
insult  that  those  words  almost  openly  conveyed,  very 
nearly  mastered  his  power  of  self-control.  He  did  con 
trol  himself  ;  but,  the  relief  in  violence  that  he  so  ea 
gerly  longed  for  being  impossible,  he  fell  into  a  sullen 
rage. 

Having  precipitated  this  condition  of  affairs,  Bar- 
wood  got  over  his  grumpiness  and  was  extraordinarily 
cheerful.  But  for  Mary  and  Hardy  the  supper  was  a 
meal  of  wormwood,  and  over  it  seemed  to  hang  visibly 
the  shadow  of  death.  Hardy  was  determined  to  force 
a  crisis  quickly ;  Mary  only  felt  vaguely  that  a  crisis 
soon  must  come.  And  in  the  same  way  the  one  knew 
and  the  other  instinctively  felt  that  when  it  did  come 
death  certainly  would  come  with  it.  It  was  not  in  hu 
man  nature  that  conditions  such  as  those  in  which  they 
were  living  could  work  out  to  anything  but  a  tragedy. 

At  last  the  supper  was  ended.  Barwood  cheerfully 
asked  Hardy  to  stay  and  smoke  a  pipe  ;  but  he  an 
swered  that  he  was  tired,  and  would  go  over  to  the  sta 
tion  and  turn  in  at  once,  so  as  to  get  some  solid  sleep 
before  the  night  train  came  up  the  line. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table  Mary  said  quickly,  the 
sound  of  her  voice  being  lost  in  the  scraping  of  the 
chairs  upon  the  clay  floor  :  "  I  must  speak  to  you." 


25G  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

He  nodded  to  show  that  lie  understood,  and  then  he 
went  away. 

Hardy  was  in  far  too  excited  a  state  of  mind  and 
body  to  carry  out  his  avowed  intention  of  turning  in 
and  sleeping  until  the  night  train  should  arrive.  He 
opened  both  doors  at  the  station,  and  the  window  of  the 
little  inner  room,  so  that  the  cool  night  wind  might 
range  freely  through  the  building  and  carry  off  the 
heat  accumulated  in  the  pine  boards.  While  this  pro 
cess  was  going  on  he  brought  the  chair  outside  on  the 
platform  and  seated  himself  there. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  he  could  not  sleep.  In 
the  past  few  hours  he  had  lived  over  again  in  his 
thoughts  the  portion  of  his  life  that  had  stirred  him 
most  deeply ;  he  had  found  himself  being  drawn  into 
an  entanglement  out  of  which  he  saw  no  clear  way  save 
that  of  killing  the  man  who  was  the  main  cause  of  it ; 
and  he  had  been  startled  by  the  quickening  in  his  heart 
of  a  love  that  he  had  thought  was  dead  forever. 

The  revival  of  his  love  for  Mary  was  a  genuine  sur 
prise  to  Hardy ;  but  he  was  not  disposed  to  resent  it, 
nor  to  crush  it  down.  On  the  contrary,  he  gave  it  every 
encouragement.  He  had  a  better  right  to  her,  he  ar 
gued,  than  that  possessed  by  her  brute  of  a  husband. 
If,  as  seemed  extremely  probable,  he  should  end  by 
shooting  Barwood,  then  everything  would  go  smoothly 
— and  he  would  be  able  to  comfort  himself  with  the  re 
flection  that  he  had  saved  a  sheriff  or  a  vigilance  com 
mittee  the  trouble  of  a  hanging-match.  If  Barwood 
should  succeed  in  getting  away  without  being  shot,  then 
— he  thought  of  Mary's  delicate,  fair  skin  and  red  little 
mouth — well,  then  he  would  have  her  just  the  same 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  257 

And  he  would  deserve  to  have  her,  for  he  would  be 
true  to  her  and  tender,  and  would  do  his  best  to  make 
her  forget  the  bitter  sorrow  that  she  had  endured.  He 
felt  that  from  the  standpoint  of  public  sentiment  on  the 
frontier  he  had  abstract  right  and  justice  on  his  side— 
and  he  meant  to  go  in  and  win. 

They  would  go  back  to  the  States,  of  course  ;  not  to 
Pennsylvania,  but  to  some  live  place  in  the  West,  where 
he  could  earn  a  good  living  right  away,  and  in  eight  or 
ten  years  could  make  a  comfortable  fortune.  He  had 
not  cared  until  now  to  make  money,  but  in  the  course 
of  his  wandering,  aimless  life  he  had  found  out  where 
and  how  in  the  West  money  could  be  made  quickly  by 
an  energetic  man.  "Now  he  would  sail  in  and  make  it. 
When  he  got  his  pile  they  would  go  to  Europe.  Mary 
always  had  wanted  to  go  to  Europe— and  if  any  of  the 
queens  they  met  were  better  dressed  than  she  was  he'd 
know  the  reason  why !  In  a  contemptuous  way  he  re 
called  his  old-time  plan  for  keeping  her  shut  up  all  her 
life  in  the  Wyoming  Valley. 

And  then  his  thoughts  drifted  off  into  the  time  when 
this  plan  was  formed,  and  one  picture  after  another  of 
Mary  as  he  remembered  her  in  those  days  formed  itself 
in  his  mind.  How  he  did  love  her  then  he  thought — 
but  how  much  more  he  loved  her  now ! 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  cool  darkness,  thinking  these 
pleasant  thoughts,  the  time  slipped  away  rapidly. 
Toward  ten  o'clock  a  soft,  silvery  haze  began  to  loom 
up  in  the  east ;  and  a  little  later  the  full  moon  rose 
above  the  mountains,  and  flooded  with  a  brilliant  light 
the  great,  desolate  plain.  The  shadow  of  the  building 
fell  over  him — a  shadow  so  sharp  and  strong  that  at  a 
17 


258  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

distance  of  fifty  feet  his  darkly  clad  form  would  have 
been  invisible  ;  and  to  his  eyes,  looking  out  from  this 
covert,  the  effect  was  that  of  an  atmosphere  of  liquid 
radiance.  He  was  not  ordinarily  an  imaginative  man, 
but  in  his  present  excited  and  exalted  frame  of  mind 
this  outburst  of  splendor  seemed  to  him  emblematic  of 
the  way  in  which  from  his  own  life  a  melancholy  dark 
ness  had  been  banished  by  the  great  light  of  love.  He 
accepted  the  good  omen  gladly,  and  his  thoughts  be 
came  still  more  sanguine  and  more  bold. 

A  sound  of  footsteps  and  low  voices  startled  him 
from  his  reverie.  Two  men  were  walking  up  the  track 
toward  the  station,  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  tank. 
Their  wide-brimmed  hats  cast  deep  shadows  over  their 
faces,  but  the  voice  of  one  of  the  men  he  recognized  as 
that  of  Barwood.  They  were  speaking  in  Spanish,  and, 
before  he  could  distinguish  their  words,  he  inferred 
from  the  tone  of  their  voices  that  they  were  engaged  in 
some  sort  of  argument.  As  they  drew  near  to  the  sta 
tion  he  saw  Barwood  place  his  hand  restrainingly  on  his 
companion's  arm.  The  man  turned  impatiently. 

"  It  is  better  to  kill  him  now,"  he  said,  "  and  so  be 
rid  of  him.  A  dead  dog  can  not  bark." 

"  Patience,  Senor  Alcalde.  If  we  kill  him  this  first 
night  we  shall  cause  much  talk,  and  until  our  great  pro 
ject  is  accomplished  we  do  not  want  to  be  talked  about. 
And  I  tell  you  again  that  if  we  can  persuade  him  to 
join  us  he  will  be  most  useful.  There  is  no  need  for 
haste.  Let  us  wait  a  little  and  see  what  will  come.  He 
is  in  our  hands ;  should  he  not  do  what  we  require  of 
him — "  Barwood  drew  his  hand  quickly  across  his 
throat,  and  added  :  "  It  will  not  take  long." 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  259 

Hardy  sat  rigid  in  the  shadow,  his  finger  on  the  trig 
ger  of  his  self-acting  revolver.  One  single  step  forward 
on  the  part  of  the  two  men  would  have  been  certain 
death  to  both  of  them.  They  were  not  sixty  feet  dis 
tant  ;  their  forms  stood  out  sharply  in  the  brilliant 
moonlight ;  a  prettier  shot  could  not  reasonably  have 
been  desired.  For  a  moment  the  Mexican  stood  irreso 
lute.  Then,  yielding  to  Barwood's  practical  reasoning, 
lie  turned  slowly,  and  the  two  walked  away  toward  the 
town.  As  he  turned  a  shiver  went  over  him  ;  perhaps, 
in  some  curious  way,  his  body  knew  how  near  it  had 
been  to  returning  to  the  dust  out  of  which  it  came. 

Hardy's  tense  muscles  relaxed  slowly,  and  the  hand 
that  held  the  pistol  hung  down  straight  by  his  side. 
His  first  strong  feeling  was  that  of  disappointment. 
Had  the  men  advanced,  he  would  have  been  amply  jus 
tified  in  shooting  them,  arid  there  was  no  doubt  but  that 
he  would  have  made  a  clean  job  of  it.  So  good  a  chance 
was  not  likely  to  come  again.  His  luck  had  gone  back 
on  him,  he  thought.  However,  this  much  good  had 
come  out  of  the  encounter  :  he  knew  now  certainly 
what  to  look  for  from  the  other  side.  He  had  not,  it 
is  true,  seriously  doubted  Barwood's  amiable  intentions 
toward  him,  but  it  was  comforting  to  have  heard  them 
so  clearly  stated  from  his  own  lips.  ISTow  they  were  on 
even  terms,  so  far  as  intentions  went ;  and  he  had  a  little 
the  best  of  the  situation,  in  that  he  knew  something  of 
Barwood's  plans. 

The  dry,  cool  night  wind  played  over  him  sooth 
ingly.  After  so  much  excitement  came  the  languor  of 
reaction.  Presently  he  dropped  off  into  an  easy,  refresh 
ing  sleep,  that  lasted  until  he  was  roused  by  the  whistlo 


260  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

of  the  coming  train.  "When  lie  had  attended  to  the 
shipping  of  the  bullion,  and  the  train  had  gone  on  again, 
he  brought  his  cot  out  on  the  platform  and  slept  there 
comfortably  until  morning.  He  had  expected  to  spend 
the  night  in  the  station,  with  the  doors  locked  and  the 
windows  barred  ;  but,  from  what  he  had  heard,  he 
knew  that  for  the  present  he  was  not  in  danger,  and  so 
could  indulge  safely  in  the  luxury  of  fresh  air.  He 
awoke  thoroughly  refreshed,  and  as  he  came  up  to 
breakfast  from  a  bath  in  the  river  he  enjoyed  the  pleas 
ant  sensation  of  feeling  fully  able  to  hold  his  own  against 
anybody. 

Barwood,  already  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  obvi 
ously  was  the  worse  for  loss  of  sleep.  His  eyes  were 
red  and  heavy,  and  the  mescal  that  he  had  taken  to 
brace  him  up  had  done  little  more  than  dispose  him  to 
snap  and  snarl  on  small  provocation.  He  had  been 
venting  his  ill-humor  on  Mary  apparently,  for  she  had  a 
nervous,  frightened  look,  and  seemed  to  have  been  cry 
ing.  His  salutation  to  Hardy  was  an  inarticulate  grunt. 
Mary  tried  to  say  good-morning  cheerfully,  but  there 
was  a  quiver  in  her  voice  that  went  to  Hardy's 'heart. 
His  eyes  must  have  shown  her  how  much  he  felt  for 
her,  for  hers  filled  with  tears  ;  and  then  a  delicate  color 
came  into  her  pale  face.  She  poured  out  his  coffee 
from  the  tin  pot  standing  on  the  stove  ;  and  as  she  stood 
beside  him  for  a  moment  while  she  placed  the  cup  on 
the  table,  her  hand,  very  lightly,  pressed  against  his  arm. 
There  was  something  appealing  in  this  touch :  it  was  an 
avowal  of  her  need  for  protection  and  of  her  trust  in 
his  shielding  strength. 

Hardy  ate  his  breakfast  in  silence.     He  could  not 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  261 

trust  his  voice  in  talking  commonplace  talk  with  Mary ; 
and  he  could  not  trust  his  temper  in  talking  with  her 
husband  at  all.  Fortunately,  Barwood  kept  silence  too. 
Even  in  his  present  mood  of  sullenness  he  still  seemed 
to  desire  to  maintain  peace.  lie  waited  at  the  table 
until  Hardy  had  finished  his  breakfast,  and  then  said, 
sulkily :  "  Well,  we'd  better  be  movin',  I  s'pose." 

Hardy  accepted  the  situation  and  left  the  house  at 
once.  But  a  quick  glance  as  he  went  out  assured  Mary 
that  in  some  way  he  would  compass  the  meeting  that 
they  both  desired. 

At  the  station  there  was  no  work  to  occupy  him. 
The  down  passenger  train  was  not  due  for  two  hours ; 
the  down  freight  not  for  an  hour  or  two  later,  and  the 
up  freight  was  not  due  until  afternoon.  Hardy  natu 
rally  \vas  an  energetic  man,  and  this  dull,  enforced  idle 
ness  oppressed  him.  He  brought  the  chair  out  on  the 
platform,  in  the  shade  of  the  building — for  the  heat  al 
ready  was  potent — and  sought  consolation  in  his  pipe. 
In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  he  saw  smoke  rising  from 
the  valley,  beyond  the  tank,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
heard  the  regular  strokes  of  the  pump.  He  paid  no 
attention  to  the  sound  at  first — save  that  he  found  its 
rhythmic  monotony  soothing — but  after  a  while  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  as  only  five  engines  had 
watered  at  the  tank  since  the  previous  morning,  when 
it  certainly  had  been  full,  there  was  no  need  for  wast 
ing  wood  by  starting  the  pump  so  soon  again  ;  and  then 
he  became  thoroughly  aroused,  for  this  wraste  of  wrood 
was  the  kernel  of  the  matter  which  the  superintendent 
had  sent  him  to  Santa  Maria  to  investigate. 

He  got  on  his  feet  briskly,  plumped  the  chair  inside- 


262  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  station,  shut  and  locked  the  doors,  and  walked  quickly 
up  the  track  to  the  tank.  The  gauge  showed  fourteen 
feet  of  wrater — just  about  what  he  had  expected  to  find. 
Obviously,  there  was  no  need  of  pumping  for  at  least 
two  days.  On  the  other  hand,  Barwood's  confessed  dis 
position  to  let  mescal  get  the  better  of  him  now  and 
then  gave  a  valid  reason — though  not  exactly  a  reason 
that  the  Company  would  recognize — for  not  permitting 
his  water  to  get  low.  In  keeping  his  tank  full  he  was 
only  making  a  prudent  allowance  for  the  factor  of  error ; 
that  is  to  say,  providing  three  days  of  leeway  in  which 
he  might  get  drunk  with  impunity.  While  Hardy  was 
thinking  the  matter  over,  irresolute  as  to  whether  he 
should  or  should  not  go  down  and  order  the  pumping 
stopped,  he  perceived  that  there  was  no  sound  of  water 
running  into  the  tank ;  and  then,  looking  closely,  he 
saw  that  the  gauge  was  not  moving.  As  the  pumping 
still  went  on,  it  was  evident  that  there  must  be  a  break 
in  the  pipe.  This,  of  course,  was  a  matter  to  be  at 
tended  to  at  once. 

From  the  tank  the  pipe  was  carried  on  tall  posts  to 
a  rocky  hillock,  and  thence,  raised  a  little  above  the 
ground,  through  a  tangle  of  mesquite  shrub  down  the 
steep  bank  to  the  pump.  Half-way  down  the  bank 
emerging  from  the  mesquite  bushes,  was  the  acequia 
that  fed  the  plantation  below  the  town.  Through  this 
acequia  the  water  was  running  merrily ;  he  could  see 
the  glint  of  it  in  the  sun. 

Hardy  followed  the  line  of  pipe  into  the  bushes 
with  some  difficulty,  for  the  way  which  had  been  cleared 
when  the  pipe  was  laid  was  now  so  obstructed  by  mes 
quite  branches  and  long  spines  of  cactus  and  other 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  263 

thorny  growths  as  to  make  walking  botli  difficult  and 
painful.  He  wondered  a  good  deal  over  this  condition 
of  affairs,  for  common  sense  dictated  the  necessity  of 
keeping  a  clear  way  along  the  pipe — and  these  obstruc 
tions  obviously  had  been  put  in  place  purposely.  But 
liis  wonder  ceased  when  he  succeeded,  at  the  sacri 
fice  of  the  integrity  of  both  his  clothes  and  his  skin, 
in  forcing  his  way  to  the  point  where  the  line  of  the 
awquia  was  crossed — and  here  also  the  mystery  of  the 
pumping  was  effectually  dispelled.  The  pipe  was  not 
broken,  but  carefully  unscrewed  at  one  of  its  joints,  and 
from  the  opening  thus  made  the  water  was  discharging 
at  the  full  power  of  the  pump  into  the  acequia.  A 
monkey-wrench  screwed  fast  to  the  sleeve  of  the  joint 
made  the  repair  of  the  break  possible  in  a  moment.  A 
well-beaten  path  went  along  the  bank  of  the  acequia  for 
a  hundred  yards,  and  then  dipped  downward  through 
the  bushes  in  the  direction  of  the  engine-house, 

As  Hardy  made  these  interesting  discoveries,  he 
whistled  to  himself  softly.  The  case  was  perfectly  clear. 
Barwood  was  using  the  Company's  pump  and  the  Com 
pany's  firewood  to  supply  his  Mexican  friends  with 
water  for  irrigation;  and  he  was  doing  it  so  cleverly 
that  the  chances  of  his  being  discovered  were  only  about 
one  in  a  thousand.  However,  the  odd  one  tenth  of  one 
per  cent  had  gone  against  him  at  last,  and  his  little 
game  was  spoiled.  Hardy  had  lived  long  enough  in  hot, 
dry  lands  to  appreciate  fully  the  benefit  that  Barwood 
was  conferring  on  the  community — at  the  Company's  ex 
pense — and  how  strong  in  consequence  must  be  his  hold 
on  the  popular  good-will.  And  he  further  perceived 
that  about  the  surest  and  quickest  way  to  get  a  knife  or 


264:  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

a  bullet  in  himself  would  be  to  report  liis  discovery  to 
the  superintendent,  and  so  to  cause  the  shutting  do\vn 
of  these  highly  irregular  water-works.  That  he  must 
make  such  a  report  was  inevitable,  but,  as  he  reflected, 
it  need  not  necessarily  be  made  at  once.  The  Company's 
interests  would  not  suffer  seriously  by  reason  of  his 
withholding  his  action  for  a  few  days,  and  in  the  mean 
time  his  knowledge  gave  him  a  power  over  Barwood  that 
in  various  ways  he  might  use  to  excellent  advantage. 

As  he  stood  beside  the  broken  pipe,  revolving  these 
thoughts  in  his  mind,  a  sudden,  curious,  creeping  thrill 
wrent  through  him,  chilling  him  in  the  midst  of  the  hot 
sunshine,  and  causing  his  heart  for  a  moment  to  stand 
still.  Almost  in  panic  he  turned  hastily  away.  It  was 
over  in  a  moment,  and  he  laughed  at  himself  as  he 
forced  his  way  back  along  the  line  of  the  pipe  through 
the  thorns. 

Hardy  was  in  a  state  of  high  satisfaction.  He  had 
accomplished  already  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  been 
sent  to  Santa  Maria,  and  he  felt  that  he  now  had  a  pow 
erful  lever  with  which  to  work  in  accomplishing  the  still 
stronger  purpose  that  had  formed  in  his  heart  since  his 
arrival  there.  He  returned  to  the  station,  and  when  he 
had  washed  the  blood  from  his  scratched  hands  he  set 
tled  himself  to  smoking  in  a  very  comfortable  frame  of 
mind.  Both  for  the  Company  and  for  himself  he  had 
done  an  excellent  morning's  work. 

At  dinner  Barwood  was  in  a  less  cantankerous  mood. 
Either  he  had  worked  off  the  effects  of  his  early  morn 
ing  mescal,  or  else,  which  was  more  probable,  he  had 
distilled  within  himself  more  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  from  additional  libations.  He  even  was  jocose 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  2G5 

in  a  heavy  way,  chaffing  Hardy  clumsily  about  his  fail 
ure  in  love-making ;  and  bringing  a  flame  of  scarlet  to 
Mary's  face  by  telling  her  that  now  she  knew  that 
sweethearts  were  like  chickens  and  curses,  and  came 
home  to  roost.  Hardy  found  these  pleasantries  so  gall 
ing  that,  as  the  only  way  of  avoiding  a  collision,  he  de 
clared  that  it  was  too  hot  to  eat,  and  so  left  the  table  and 
the  house.  His  host  looked  at  him  suspiciously  as  he 
made  this  abrupt  move — and  he  had  better  ground  for 
suspicion  than  he  imagined  ;  for,  while  Barwood  was 
w ashing  his  face  and  hands  outside  the  door  before  din 
ner,  Hardy  had  secured  Mary's  promise  to  meet  him  an 
hour  later  in  the  valley  of  the  stream,  beneath  the  bluff. 

Hardy  had  thought  the  matter  over  carefully,  and 
had  decided  that  this  hot  time  in  the  early  afternoon 
was  the  period  in  the  whole  range  of  the  twenty -four 
hours  when  they  would  be  most  secure.  Every  human 
being  at  that  time  almost  certainly  would  be  asleep — a 
general  somnolence  that  by  no  means  could  be  counted 
upon  at  night  in  so  irregular  a  community — and  even 
should  some  accidentally-awake  person  see  Mary,  water- 
jar  in  hand,  going  down  or  ascending  the  path  that  led 
to  the  river,  suspicion  would  not  be  aroused.  At  the 
most,  her  action  would  attract  no  more  attention  than 
would  be  embodied  in  a  terse  comment  upon  the 
American-like  folly  displayed  in  going  for  water  dur 
ing  the  hours  which  all  rigl it-thinking  Mexicans  hold 
sacred  to  the  deep  slumber  that  is  begot  of  heat. 

While  Hardy  waited  at  the  station  impatiently  for 
the  hour  to  pass,  he  was  surprised  by  hearing  again  the 
sound  of  the  pump.  He  had  counted  upon  Barwood's 
acquired  Mexican  habits  to  place  him  among  the  sleep- 


266  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ers,  and  for  a  moment  lie  found  this  evidence  that  Bar- 
wood  was  awake  decidedly  disconcerting.  After  all, 
though',  he  reflected,  whether  Barwood  was  asleep  or  at 
work  in  the  engine-house,  the  practical  result  was  the 
same ;  and,  on  the  whole,  small  though  the  chance 
would  be  of  his  waking  up  from  his  siesta,  the  chance 
of  his  leaving  his  engine  was  even  smaller.  And  hav 
ing  arrived  at  this  conviction  he  dismissed  the  matter 
from  his  mind,  and  gave  his  thoughts  free  rein  concern 
ing  the  strange  meeting  that  he  was  about  to  have  with 
the  woman  who  once  had  filled  his  whole  life,  and 
whom  he  now  had  found  again  in  so  desperate  a  case 
that  his  reawakened  love  had  added  to  it  the  tenderness 
of  a  great  pity  and  the  fierceness  of  a  concentrated  rage. 

YI. 

HARDY'S  nature  never  had  been  a  gentle  one,  and 
there  certainly  had  been  nothing  softening  in  the  ex 
periences  which  had  come  to  him  during  his  three 
years  of  life  on  the  frontier ;  being  now  stirred  to  its 
very  depths,  a  burning  passion  had  been  aroused  in 
him  in  which  every  turbulent  element  in  his  being  was 
involved.  As  he  strode  backward  and  forward  through 
the  length  of  the  two  small  rooms,  he  closed  and 
opened  his  hands,  his  breath  came  hot  and  short,  his 
eyes  shone  dangerously,  on  his  face  was  a  dark  flush. 
He  remembered  the  touch  of  Mary's  hand  on  his  shoul 
der  that  morning.  Had  Barwood  happened  to  come 
into  the  station  just  then,  he  certainly  would  have  shot 
him  on  sight. 

At  last  the  hour  of  waiting  was  ended.     Hardy 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  267 

shivered  a  little  as  he  returned  his  watch  to  his  pocket 
— during  the  final  minutes  he  had  held  it  in  his  hand — 
and  went  out  into  the  quivering  heat.  In  all  the  time 
that  he  had  known  her,  in  the  old  days,  he  had  not 
even  kissed  her,  he  thought  as  he  walked  along. 

A  little  below  the  point  at  which  the  railroad  crossed 
it,  the  river  bent  sharply,  and  beyond  this  turn  was 
the  bluff  on  which  stood  the  town.  Hardy  walked 
toward  the  railroad  bridge,  but  on  the  side  of  the  en- 
bankment  farthest  from  the  engine-house  and  tank.  In 
case  any  wakeful  person  chanced  to  see  him,  the  natural 
inference  would  be  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  join  Bar- 
wood  at  the  pump — the  steady  beating  of  which  sounded 
regularly  through  the  hot  air.  A  footpath,  the  shortest 
way  between  Barwood's  house  and  the  pump,  ran  along 
the  valley,  parallel  with  the  stream,  through  thickets  of 
nopales  and  mesquite,  and,  following  this,  Hardy  came 
in  a  few  minutes  to  the  spot  where  he  had  bidden  Mary 
meet  him.  She  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  path.  As 
he  caught  sight  of  her — a  look  of  eagerness  on  her  face 
as  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  the  sunlight 
sparkling  in  her  hair,  her  round  white  arm  showing,  as 
she  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  sun — his  heart  gave  a 
bound.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  For  a 
moment  a  dizziness  came  over  him,  and  he  put  his  hard 
to  his  forehead  as  though  in  pain. 

Nourished  by  the  near-by  water,  the  mesquite  bushes 
hereabouts  were  grown  to  be  little  trees,  which  formed 
a  grove,  screening  the  face  of  the  bluff.  A  faintly 
marked  path,  worn  by  the  goats,  led  crookedly  through 
this  grove  to  a  narrow  open  space,  above  which  rose 
the  bluff,  trending  outward.  He  drew  her  along  this 


268  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

path,  and  seated  her  on  a  fallen  stone  in  the  shadowy 
nook  formed  by  the  rocky  overhang.  Here  they  were 
hidden  completely ;  but  above  the  bushes  they  could  see 
down  the  valley,  and  out  across  the  great  sun-beaten 
plain,  that  far  away  rose  in  long  slopes  to  the  flanks  of 
the  gray-blue  mountains  which  girded  it  in.  A  slow 
current  of  air — dry,  hot,  stimulating — set  up  the  valley. 
The  only  sound  that  broke  the  almost  palpable  stillness 
was  the  low  throbbing  of  the  pump.  To  them  both, 
this  sound  brought  back  vividly  the  memory  of  that 
Sunday  afternoon  in  the  Wyoming  Valley,  three  years 
before. 

Hardy  seated  himself  beside  her  and  drew  her  to 
ward  him. 

"  O  John — you  musn't,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a 
low,  frightened  voice.  But  she  made  no  effort  to  loose 
herself  from  his  grasp. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  settled  her  head  against 
his  shoulder  and  drew  her  still  more  closely  to  him. 
The  flush  on  his  face  had  deepened. 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  short,  quick  sob,  and  her  head 
drooped  forward  until  it  rested  on  his  breast.  Then 
she  began  to  cry ;  softly,  as  a  hurt  child  cries  while  being 
comfoited. 

"  It  all  lias  been  so  very  dreadful,"  she  moaned. 
"  Your — your  curse  came  true,  John." 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  but  his  arm  clasped 
her  less  closely  and  more  tenderly,  while  the  flush  on 
his  face  slowly  faded,  and  left  him  very  pale.  "  My 
poor  little  girl,"  he  said.  "  Tell  me  all  that  has  hap 
pened.  I  can  help  you,  you  know — and  I  mean  to 
do  it." 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  2(59 

And  then  slowly,  bit  by  bit,  she  told  him  the  same 
story  that  Barwood  had  told  him — but  from  the  point 
of  view  not  of  the  wrong-doer,  but  of  the  wronged.  It 
did  not  seem  to  her  that  she  had  in  anywise  contributed 
to  her  own  sorrow ;  and,  without  the  mitigating  facts  of 
her  own  moodiness  and  coldness,  the  case  that  she  made 
out  against  Barwood  was  a  black  one  indeed. 

"  And  it  is  worse  here  in  Santa  Maria  than  it  has 
been  at  all,  John,"  she  went  on.  "  Will  was  wild  and 
cruel,  and  got  drunk  in  those  other  places ;  but  here 
he  is  mixed  up  with  these  dreadful  Mexicans  in  all 
sorts  of  wicked  things  which  make  me  shiver  to  think 
about.  There  is  smuggling  going  on  all  the  time,  and 
they  all  are  robbers,  and  I  know  that  he  was  with  them 
when  that  ranch  was  raided  and  those  poor  men  were 
killed."  Mary  shuddered  violently.  "  Oh,  it  is  horri 
ble,  horrible ! " 

"  And  this  Mexican  woman  ? " 

Mary's  face  grew  crimson,  and  then  pale.  She  tried 
to  draw  away  from  him,  trembling.  Then,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper,  she  said  :  "  That — that  is  the 
very  Mrorst  of  all." 

For  a  little  time  they  both  were  silent.  The  flush 
had  come  back  to  Hardy's  face  and  his  hold  upon  her 
had  tightened.  She  could  feel  the  strong  beating  of 
his  heart.  His  voice  was  unsteady,  and  had  a  strange 
sound  in  it  when  he  spoke. 

"  Mary,  will  you  let  me  take  you  out  of  all  this  ? " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  in  a  troubled, 
frightened  tone. 

"  I  mean,  will  you  come  away  with  me  from  this 
brute  and  let  me  take  care  of  you?  Don't  push  me 


270  STORIES  .OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

away.  Don't  answer  yet" — lie  held  her  closely,  and 
spoke  rapidly  in  order  to  check  her  rising  words. 
"  You  know  how  I  loved  you  in  the  old  times,  Mary. 
You  were  everything  in  life  to  me.  And  now  I  love 
you  more,  greatly  more,  than  even  I  did  then.  This 
man  has  no  right  to  you ;  he  has  thrown  away  his  right 
to  you — he  has  thrown  it  away,  I  tell  you  !  Think  of 
what  his  life  has  been — of  what  it  is  now — of  the  insult 
he  has  put  upon  you  here  in  your  own  home.  He  has 
no  right  to  you,  Mary.  And  I  have  a  right  to  you  be 
cause  I  love  you  so.  I  will  take  such  good  care  of  you, 
Mary ;  I  will  spend  all  my  life  in  making  you  happy 
once  more — in  trying  to  make  you  forget  how  unhappy 
you  have  been.  Don't — don't  go  away  from  me,  Mary 
— what  have  I  done  to  make  you  angry  ?  Don't  you 
understand  that  I  love  you — that  I  must  have  you  ? 
Don't  you—" 

She  broke  away  from  him  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 
She  was  far  from  being  a  majestic  woman  under  ordi 
nary  circumstances,  but  there  certainly  was  an  air  of 
majesty  about  her  now.  Hardy  stood  up,  facing 
her. 

"  How  dare  you  ? "  she  panted.  "  Because  my  hus 
band  is — because  my  husband  has  hurt  me  so,  is  that 
any  reason  why  you  should  hurt  me  still  more  ?  You 
are  as  bad  as  he  is.  You  are  worse  than  he  is.  Isn't 
there  such  a  thing  as  one  single  honorable  man  in  the 
world  ? "  Then  the  heroic  tones  died  out  of  her  voice, 
and  her  commanding  pose  changed  to  a  look  of  fear 
and  weakness.  "  O  John,  John  !  "  she  said,  '•'  I  thought 
that  I  could  trust  you.  I  thought  that  you  really  would 
help  me.  I  never — oh,  my  God  !  I  never  thought  of 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  271 

anything  like  this."  She  sank  down  on  the  stone  again, 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to  cry. 

Hardy  felt,  and  looked  a  little,  like  a  dog  that  had 
received  a  deserved  beating  Mary's  piteous  appeal, 
even  more  than  her  indignant  protest,  had  made  him 
realize  how  bitterly  cruel  he  had  been ;  how,  if  he  had 
deliberately  set  himself  to  make  the  horror  of  her  life 
greater  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  Of 
course  she  would  not  trust  him  any  more  ;  he  could  not 
blame  her ;  and  so  his  purpose — an  honest  and  manly 
purpose  now— to  help  her  could  do  no  good.  For  a 
long  while  he  stood  in  silence,  looking  away  from  her 
out  over  the  plain,  chewing  the  cud  of  most  bitter 
thoughts. 

At  last  Mary  spoke  :  "  John,  tell  me  that  you  didn't 
mean  it.  I'm  sure  you  didn't.  I'm  so  very,  very  un 
happy,  John.  And  unless  you  help  me  I  don't  see  any 
hope  at  all.  Tell  me  that  you  didn't  mean  it,  John." 

There  was  an  infinite  pathos  in  her  words  ;  a  de 
spairing  pathos — for  that  she  still  should  appeal  to  him 
for  help  showed  how  desperate  her  plight  must  be. 
But  for  him  there  was  comfort  in  this  appeal,  since  it 
made  clear  the  way  for  his  atonement.  "  I  can  tell  you 
from  the  very  core  of  my  heart  that  I  don't  mean  it 
now,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  Please  God,  I  really  will  be  an 
honest  friend  to  you  now,  and  I  will  get  you  out  of  this 
honestly,  and  home  safely  to  the  States.  I  guess  I  must 
have  been  crazy,  Mary ;  but  I'm  not  crazy  any  longer, 
and  you  can  trust  me  right  straight  through." 

Mary  looked  up  at  him  gladly.  "  Those  are  the 
best  words  I've  heard  in  three  years,"  she  said.  "O 
John,  you  nearly  killed  me  a  little  while  ago ;  but  you 


272  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPADT. 

must  have  been  crazy,  just  as  you  said  ;  and  now  you 
are  giving  me  hope  that  is  worth  living  for.  Somehow, 
all  alone  as  I've  been,  I  haven't  had  the  strength  to  try 
to  break  away  and  get  home.  I've  been  afraid.  I 
guess  I  haven't  much  of  what  they  call  backbone.  But 
I  have  your  strength  now,  John  ;  and  things  will  all 
come  right,  I'm  sure.  You'll  get  me  home  safe,  won't 
you,  John  ?  " 

She  came  close  to  him  eagerly,  and  took  his  hand. 
As  a  father  might  have  done,  he  put  his  arm  around 
her  and  drew  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"  But  you  must  be  very  careful,  John,"  she  went  on. 
"  Will  is  such  a  masterful  sort  of  a  man  !  If  he  finds 
out  anything,  I  know  that  he'll  kill  us." 

Hardy  smiled  confidently.  "  I  guess  if  there's  any 
killing  going  around  I  won't  get  left,"  lie  said.  "  I 
don't  want  to  kill  your  husband,  of  course,  but  if  it's 
got  to  be  done  I'll  do  it  all  the  same." 

"  Bat  maybe  not  while  he's  got  the  drop  on 
you!" 

Hardy  turned  quickly.  Barwood  was  standing  in 
the  path  not  ten  feet  away,  holding  aside  the  mesqnite 
branches  with  his  left  hand,  while  in  his  right  hand,  lev 
eled  at  Hardy's  head,  was  a  cocked  revolver. 

"  It  may  be  your  ante ;  but  I've  got  the  cards,"  he 
said,  coolly. 

Had  Hardy  been  a  tenderfoot,  he  would  have  made 
an  effort  to  draw  his  pistol — and  would  have  been  shot 
instantly.  Having  had  the  benefit  of  three  years'  ex 
perience  of  Southwestern  manners  and  customs,  he  stood 
perfectly  still  and  awaited  developments. 

Mary  had  screamed  when  she  heard  her  husband's 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE   ANGELS.  2T3 

voice,  and  saw  him  standing  before  her  grimly  threaten 
ing  ;  and  then  she  had  sunk  cowering  down,  with  her 
face  bent  close  to  her  knees,  and  her  hands  pressed  tight 
ly  to  her  ears  to  deaden  the  sound  of  the  pistol-shot. 
To  her  surprise,  this  sound  did  not  come.  Slowly  she 
raised  her  head. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Hardy,"  Barwood  said,  "  if  you'll  give 
me  your  word  of  honor  that  you'll  be  on  th'  square  as  I 
promise  you  I'll  be  with  you,  we  won't  have  any  shoot- 
in'  just  at  present.  Is  it  a  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Hardy  answered. 

"  No  monkey  tricks,  on  your  word  of  honor  ? " 
Barwood  said,  letting  his  revolver  fall  slowly. 

"  On  my  word  of  honor." 

"  All  right,  then.  Maybe  one  of  us'll  have  t'  be  used 
as  th'  beginnin'  of  an  American  graveyard  in  these 
parts  before  we  get  through  with  each  other,  but  th'  per- 
cession  needn't  start  just  yet. — Here,  you  fool  Mary,  go 
back  t'  th'  house." 

Hardy  quivered  as  this  order  was  given,  but  Mary — 
used  to  orders  thus  tersely  worded — rose  quietly  to  obey 
it.  She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  two  men  as 
they  confronted  each  other. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done,  what  have  I  done,"  she 
moaned,  "  that  I  should  be  the  cause  of  such  dreadful 
things  ? " 

"  What  have  yon  done  ?"  Barwood  answered.  ""Well, 
I'll  tell  you  what  you've  done.  From  first  t'  last  in  all 
you've  had  t'  say  or  do  with  me  an'  Hardy  here,  you've 
made  an  everlastin'  infernal  fool  of  yourself  an'  of  us 
too.  Fust  of  all,  you  said  you'd  marry  me ;  an'  I  went 
off  in  good  faith  t'  make  a  comfortable  home  for  you. 
18 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

An'  then  what  did  you  do  ?  Why,  you  coaxed  Hardy 
along  into  fallin'  in  love  with  you  !  An'  then,  instead 
of  shakin'  me  an'  marryin'  him — which  would  'a'  been 
tough  on  me,  but  at  least  would  'a'  had  sense  in  it — 
for  th'  fool  that  you  are  you  shook  him  an'  married 

me !     An'  then,  when  you'd  made  my  life  so  d n 

mean  t'  me  that  I  took  t'  knockin'  around  with  th'  boys, 
just  t'  try  t'  forget  how  miserable  I  was,  up  you  goes  on 
your  ear  an'  says  that  I'm  a  drunken  brute,  an'  that  you 
was  a  martyr.  An'  now,  after  you've  been  rowin'  me 
off  an'  on  for  six  months  an'  more  because  I've  got  a 
Mexican  lady  friend  who's  not  all  moods  an'  stuck-up- 
ness,  an'  who's  got  a  heart  in  her  body,  I  can't  go  to  my 
work  an'  come  back  agen  without  findin'  you  an'  an 
other  man  in  th'  thick  of  a  huggin'-match !  There's  no 
consistency  anywheres  about  you.  There's  nothin'  about 
you,  good  or  bad,  for  a  man  t'  take  hold  of  an'  tie  to. 
You're  just  a  fool — a  ferlorn,  useless  fool ! " 

Barwood  delivered  this  extended  opinion  in  a  tone 
of  sincere  conviction  and  utter  contempt.  He  was  so 
deeply  moved  that  he  even  forgot  to  interpolate  into  his 
discourse  his  customary  larding  of  heavy,  mouth-filling 
oaths.  Hardy  listened  with  a  white  face  ;  and  he  was 
the  more  stirred  to  resentment,  perhaps,  by  an  uneasy 
consciousness  that  Barwood  was  cutting  terribly  close 
to  the  truth.  Mary  scarcely  grasped  the  sense  of  a 
single  word.  She  was  too  stunned  and  shaken  to  un 
derstand  anything  just  then.  She  waited  with  the  stolid 
bearing  beneath  abuse  that  had  become  habitual  with 
her  until  her  husband  had  finished  ;  and  then,  walking 
in  a  dazed,  uncertain  way  that  made  Hardy  long  to  go 
to  her  support,  she  went  slowly  along  the  path. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  275 

As  tlie  mesquite  bushes  closed  behind  her,  Barwood 
said,  briskly :  "  Now,  Hardy,  you  an'  me'll  talk  this 
matter  right  out  now,  an'  get  that  graveyard  business 
settled  onct  for  all." 

VII. 

BARWOOD  seated  himself  on  the  stone  from  which 
Mary  had  just  risen,  and,  as  he  began  to  speak,  he 
slowly  rolled  a  cigarrito  in  his  brown  fingers.  Hardy 
leaned  against  the  bluff,  and,  half  turning  away  as  he 
listened,  looked  out  over  the  fringe  of  mesquite  bushes 
and  the  great  cactus-covered  sunny  plain  to  the  far 
mountains. 

"  I  s'pose  you'll  allow,"  Barwood  began,  "  that 
when  I  caught  you  huggin'  my  wife  that  way,  I'd  a 
perf ec'  right  t'  shoot  you  without  any  talk  about  it  ? " 

Hardy  half  turned  and  nodded.  It  was  better,  he 
decided,  to  let  Barwood  think  what  he  pleased  than  to 
complicate  matters  by  an  explanation  that  he  neither 
would  understand  nor  believe. 

"  Very  good,  that's  somethin'  we  can  begin  with 
agreein'  to.  "Well,  it's  just  th'  truth  that  I  would  'a' 
shot  you  if  I'd  thought  Mary  was  worth  it.  But  I  don't. 
You've  just  heard  rne  say  what  I  think  about  her,  an' 
I  needn't  say  't  all  over  again.  Th'  short  of  it  is  that 
she's  done  me  nothin'  but  bad  turns  ever  sence  I  mar 
ried  her,  and  I'm  sick  of  havin'  her  around.  She's  not 
worth  shootin'  anybody  for,  an'  that's  just  th'  ever- 
lastin'  truth.  Now  you  strike  me  as  bein'  a  pretty 
stiff  sort  of  a  man,  th'  kind  that's  got  sand  an'  is  good 
t'  tie  to.  I  reckon  me  an'  you  could  make  a  team,  if 


276  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

only  onct  we  could  fix  things  so's  we'd  pull  together. 
That's  what  I'm  after  now.  You've  got  eyes  in  your 
head,  an'  I  guess — t'  say  nothin'  of  what  I  s'pose  Mary's 
told  you — you've  sized  things  up  here  at  Santa  Maria 
pretty  true.  You  got  down  pretty  d n  quick,  I  no 
ticed,  t'  my  little  game  about  th'  pump." 

Hardy  started. 

"Yes,  I  seed  you  this  morain'.  You  was  sharp, 
but  you  had  a  close  call,  all  the  same.  I  was  watchin' 
you,  an'  I  had  my  gun  all  ready,  an'  I'd  more'n  half  a 
mind  t'  let  it  go  off,  too — but  I  didnt't,  "Well,  you 
ketched  on  t'  that  little  matter  'n  short  order,  an'  th' 
way  you  tumbled  to't  showed  you  t'  be  one  of  th'  wide 
awake  kind.  That's  th'  kind  I  like — an'  it's  th'  kind 
that  has  a  chance  t'  make  somethin'  out  of  livin'  here. 
I  guess  you  credit  me  with  too  much  hard  sense  t'  think 
I'd  stay  in  Santa  Maria  long  just  for  th'  fun  of  runnin' 

that  d n  pump  ?  Not  much  !  An'  I'm  not  here  for  my 

health,  neither.  Now,  I'm  goin'  t'  talk  right  out  t'  you, 
man  t'  man — for  th'  way  things  stand  between  me  an' 
you  we've  got  t'  have  a  fight  or  a  settlement.  An'  I 
just  tell  you  now  that  if  't  comes  to  a  fight,  an'  you  lay 
me  out,  you  won't  make  nothin'  by  it.  My  Greaser 
friends  know  what  I'm  doin'  and  are  lookin'  out  after 
me.  If  I'm  hurt  you'll  never  get  out  of  here  alive. 
There's  not  so  much  sleepiness  about  this  town  as  there 
seems  t'  be.  We  gave  you  this  chance  t'  talk  t'  Mary — I 
knowed  you  both  wanted  it,  an'  'u'  d  take  it  fast  enough — 
'cause  I  allowed  it  'u'd  sort  of  bring  things  right  down 
t'  th'  hard  pan,  quick  an'  comfortable.  An'  so  't  has, 
you  see.  But  there  ain't  a  man  in  Santa  Maria  who 
ain't  been  listenin'  all  day,  an'  wrho  ain't  listenin'  right 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  277 

now,  for  th'  sound  of  a  gun  goin'  off.  They'll  know 
quick  enough  what  it  means  if  they  hear  it ;  an'  I 
tell  you  again,  that  if  you  should  happen  t'  hurt  me 
you'd  be  as  dead  inside  of  ten  minutes  as  George  Wash 
ington." 

o 

Hardy  was  not  a  nervous  man,  but  a  shudder  went 
over  him  as  lie  thought  of  the  eyes  which  had  watched 
him  all  that  day  from  the  closed,  silent  houses ;  of  the 
alert  peril  that  had  beset  him  in  the  midst  of  what  had 
seemed  to  him  such  slumberous  security.  And  this  shud 
der  went  down  into  the  inner  fiber  of  his  heart  as  he 
remembered  the  curious  creeping  thrill  that  had  gone 
through  him  as  he  stood — covered,  as  he  now  knew,  by 
Barwood's  revolver — beside  the  broken  pipe.  By  the 
open  danger  that  now  menaced  him  he  was  not  seriously 
disturbed.  He  knew  about  it,  and  to  a  certain  extent 
could  guard  against  it.  But  there  was  something  eerie, 
devilish,  in  the  thought  of  this  deadly  malevolence  which 
had  lurked  beside  him  undiscovered  in  the  very  fullness 
and  brilliance  of  day. 

Barwood  chuckled.  "  I  reckon  you  allowed  you  had 
a  full  hand,  an'  didn't  happen  t'  think  we  might  have 
some  extry  aces  under  th'  table,"  he  said.  "  "Well,  we 
had  An'  we've  got  'em  there  yet. 

"  An'  now  you've  truly  sized  up  th'  game,  I  can  talk 
business.  It's  genuine  business,  too.  You  see,  I'm  at 
th'  head  of  what  I  call  an  importin'  outfit.  It's  not 
exac'ly  reg'lar  in  th'  way  it  works ;  but  it's  good  for  th' 
country,  an'  it's  pretty  middlin'  good  for  ourselves.  An' 
it's  a  sort  of  a  moral  institootion,  too,  'cause  it  takes 
away  th'  temptation  of  stealiri'  from  th'  Greaser  custom 
house  officers.  Saves  f  " 


278  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

"  You  mean  you're  smuggling?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  Barwood  answered,  with  a  fine  frank 
ness,  "  it  is  called  smugglin'  sometimes — but  I  think 
callin'  it  importin'  sounds  better.  We're  in  th'  cattle 
business,  too  ;  an'  that's  a  very  payin'  branch  of  th'  con 
cern.  An'  in  a  gen'ral  sort  of  way  we're  on  th'  make 
all  'round.  I  don't  want  to  brag  about  myself,  but  it's 
only  fair  t'  say  that  for  a  business  that  hasn't  been  run- 
nin'  long  we're  doin'  mos'  uncommon  well.  I  can't 
prove  't  t'  you  from  th'  books,  'cause  we  don't  keep 
none ;  but  I  can  prove  't  t'  you  from  th'  dollars — them 
we've  got  stacked  up  in  th'  old  church.  I  guess  holdin' 
all  them  dollars  is  about  th'  best  use  that  church  ever 
was  put  to.  It's  tli'  first  time  I've  ever  knowed  a  church 
t'  be  of  real  practical  account  t'  anybody.  Would  you 
like  t'  take  a  look  at  'em  ? " 

Hardy  turned  around  and  looked  at  Barwood  squarely. 
"  What  are  you  driving  at,  anyway  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Drivin'  at !  Can't  you  see  ?  I  want  you  t'  come 
into  th'  concern  an'  be  a  pardner." 

"  Be  a  h— 1  !  "  Hardy  burst  out. 

"  Drive  slow.  Don't  git  mad  about  it,"  Barwood 
went  on,  coolly.  "  Gettiri'  mad's  no  way  t'  manage  a 
business  transaction.  Now,  I'm  talkin'  horse-sense. 
You're  th'  sort  of  man  I've  been  lookin'  for,  an'  if 
you'll  chip  in  you  won't  be  sorry  for't.  'Tain't  many 
folks  I'd  make  th'  offer  to.  But  unless  I'm  a  good  way 
up  th'  wrong  tree,  you've  got  th'  nerve  t'  rustle  things, 
and  ain't  th'  kind  in  a  tight  place  t'  go  back  on  your 
friends.  Some  of  these  Greasers  are  pretty  good,  but  I 
never  squarely  can  tell  when  they  won't  slip  up  on  me  ; 
an'  I  want  somebody  around  who  has  sand  an'  can  be 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  279 

depended  on.  You're  that  kind,  an'  that's  th'  reason  I 
want  you. 

"  Now,  that's  my  side.  Your  side  is  that  I  let  you 
into  a  first-rate  thing,  where  there's  money  t'  be  made 
quick,  an'  lots  of  it.  It's  a  rattlin'  good  chance  for 
you.  What  do  you  say  ?  "Will  you  ante  ?  " 

"  I'll  see  you  an'  the  business  d d  first !  "  Hardy 

answered,  promptly. 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  about  that.  I  haven't  given  you 
all  th'  points  yet.  There's  some  more  reasons  why 
you'd  better  come  in,  an'  th'  biggest  one  is,  now  that 
I've  talked  in  this  free  an'  friendly  way  with  you,  I 
can't  afford  t'  have  you  stay  out.  I  didn't  intend  t' 
talk  this  way  unless  I  really  had  to ;  but  I  guess  you're 
sharp  enough  t'  see  that,  after  what  I've  told  you,  either 
you've  got  t'  come  in,  or  I've  got  t'  use  you  as  a  sort 
of  starter  for  that  American  graveyard  we  was  talkin' 
about  awhile  ago.  You  know  a  little  too  much  about 
our  game  for  't  t'  be  quite  healthy  for  you  unless  you 
take  a  hand  yourself.  Do  you  ketch  on  ? " 

"  I  sruess  I'd  about  as  lief  be  shot  now  as  have  it 

f~> 

done  later  by  a  file  of  Mexican  soldiers  ;  to  say  nothing 
of  it's  being  a  good  deal  better  than  being  hung  by  a 
sheriff  if  I  happened  to  get  caught  on  the  other  side  of 
the  line." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  Barwood  answered,  in 
a  tone  of  serious  thoughtfulness.  "  Them  little  chances 
sometimes  come  in  our  business,  an'  we've  got  t'  take 
'em.  But  what  you  ought  t'  look  at  is  that  they're 
nothin'  but  chances — an'  this  other  shootin'  that  I'm 
talkin'  about  is  th'  deadest  sort  of  a  dead  sure  thing." 

"  Well,  then,  bring  it  along— you've  got  my  answer." 


280  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Hardy  spoke  with  entire  unconcern,  and  with  obvious 
sincerity. 

"  I  knowed  you  had  sand ! "  Barwood  said,  in  a 
tone  of  admiring  approval.  "  You're  the  man  I  want. 
It'll  go  agin  my  grain  powerful  t'  put  you  in  that 
graveyard — an'  that's  th'  everlastin'  truth.  If  it's  got 
t'  be  done,  I'll  do  it,  of  course  ;  but  I  truly  don't  want 
to.  Now,  look  here,  Hardy,  there's  money  for  you  in 
this  deal,  if  you'll  come  in ;  an'  you  know  what'll  hap 
pen  t'  you  if  you  stay  out — now  what  do  you  say  if  I'll 
chuck  in  Mary  to  boot  ? " 

Hardy  faced  around  on  Barwood  sharply.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Just  plump  an'  clear  what  I  say.  If  you'd  had  as 
much  of  her  as  I've  had,  or  if  you'd  th'  sense  t'  reason 
out  from  what  I've  told  you  about  th'  way  she's  used 
me,  how  more'n  wuthless  she  is,  you  wouldn't  want 
her.  But  when  it  was  a  matter  of  women  I  never 
knowed  a  man  yet  as  wasn't  a  fool,  an'  I  s'pose  you're 
like  all  th'  rest.  It's  plain  you  do  want  her  powerful. 
Well,  if  you'll  make  this  deal  with  me  you  can  have 
her.  Tell  me,  is  it  a  go,  now  ? " 

Hardy  turned  very  pale  and  leaned  against  the  rock 
heavily.  He  was  genuinely  horrified.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  throat.  Once  or  twice  he  made  an  effort  to  speak, 
but  the  words  would  not  come.  Although  supported 
by  the  rock,  his  body  swayed  a  little  At  last,  in  a 
voice  pitched  very  low,  as  though  to  give  him  more 
control  over  it,  he  said,  slowly : 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  get  divorced,  and  that  I 
— that  I  may  marry  her  ? " 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I'd  thought  of  quite  such 


SAIXT   MARY   OF   THE  ANGELS.  281 

fancy  fixin's  as  all  that,"  Barwood  answered.  "  But  it's 
a  matter  of  no  particular  diff'rence  t'  me  how  yon  go 
about  it.  I  guess  Mary'd  like  it  that  way  ;  she  always 
did  go  in  for  style."  And  then  he  added,  sharply,  and 
with  a  tone  of  suspicion  in  his  voice :  "  But  we  can't 
have  no  foolin'  'round  after  such  Fifth  Avenue  trim- 
min's  as  divorces  now.  T'  get  a  divorce  you'd  have 
t'  go  t'  th'  States  for't,  an'  just  at  present  that  ain't 

by  a  d n  sight  what  we're  goin'  t'  do.  Oh,  come, 

Hardy,  what's  th'  good  of  makin'  an  infernal  fussy 
fool  of  yourself  this  way  ?  Just  tell  me,  will,  or 
will  not,  my  throwiu'  Mary  in  for  boot  make  you 
trade  2 " 

Hardy's  loathing  for  Barwood  was  intense,  but  he 
could  not  afford  to  show  it.  If  he  refused  this  offer 
squarely,  he  knew  that  he  would  not  live  the  day  out, 
and  with  his  death  Mary's  chance  of  escape  would  die 
too.  What  little  will-power  she  ever  had  possessed  her 
husband  long  ago  had  crushed  out  of  her.  Unless  de 
liverance  came  to  her  from  outside  herself — and  he 
alone  could  bring  it  to  her — -she  surely  was  lost.  By  a 
great  effort  he  steadied  himself  so  that  his  voice  should 
not  betray  his  anger  and  disgust. 

"  Give  me  a  little  time  to  think,"  he  said. 

"  Now,  that  begins  t'  sound  as  if  you  meant  t'  talk 
sense,"  Barwood  answered.  "  Yes,  you  can  think 
tilings  over  a  bit;  that's  only  fair.  But  you  mustn't 
fool  away  much  time  on  it.  I'll  give  you  till  ten 
o'clock  t' -night  t'  make  up  your  mind  in.  IIow'll  that 
do  ?  If  you  settle  t'  corne  in,  you'll  understand  then 
why  I  couldn't  give  you  longer.  An'  if  you  don't  come 
in — well,  if  you  don't  come  in,  I  don't  think  that  un- 


282  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

derstandin'  or  not  understandin'  '11  make  any  partic'lar 
diff' rence  to  you." 

As  Barwood  gave  this  answer,  in  a  tone  that  em 
phasized  the  sinister  significance  of  his  words,  the  sound 
of  a  locomotive  whistle  was  heard  faintly. 

"  I  may  as  well  mention,"  Barwood  added,  "  that 
I've  got  some  of  my  Greasers  in  that  busted  old  adobe 
house  clost  by  th'  station.  I'm  goin'  up  with  you  now 
t'  meet  th'  train,  an'  if  you  try  t'  come  't  over  us  by 
givin'  us  away  t'  th'  freight  outfit,  it'll  be  my  onpleas- 
ant  duty  t'  start  th'  shootin'  right  off,  an'  scoop  in  th' 
train-hands  along  with  it — which  wouldn't  be  exactly  a 
square  deal  for  them,  for  it's  none  of  their  funeral,  any 
way. 

"  We'd  better  be  movin'  now.  I  don't  think  you're 
likely  t'  try  any  monkey  tricks  with  me ;  but  I  guess 
I'll  let  you  \valk  ahead,  all  th'  same." 

Hardy  pulled  himself  together  and  walked  in  front 
of  Barwood  through  the  bushes,  and  thence  along  the 
narrow  path  to  the  break  in  the  bluff,  up  which  the 
path  ascended  to  the  village.  Having  reached  the  level 
land  above,  they  walked  together,  side  by  side,  to  the 
station.  The  freight  train  was  in  sight,  half  a  mile 
down  the  line. 

"  Just  t'  show  you  that  I'm  not  bluftin'  an'  that  I 
really  have  th'  drop  on  you,"  Barwood  said,  pleasantly, 
as  they  passed  the  partly  ruined  house,  "you  may  as 
well  take  a  look  at  my  friends  hefre.  They  won't  mind 
it — an'  seein'  'em  '11  make  you  understand  that  't  wron't 
do  you  no  good  t'  try  t'  rope  in  th'  boys  on  th'  train." 

The  roof  of  the  adobe  house  had  fallen  in  and  part 
of  the  rear  wall  had  crumbled  down ;  but  the  front  and 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  283 

side  walls  remained,  and  the  heavy  door  still  was  in 
place.  Having  whistled  softly,  Barwood  pushed  the 
door  open,  and,  by  a  gesture  invited  Hardy  to  look  in 
side.  Within  the  house  fifteen  or  twenty  men  were 
standing  or  sitting.  All  wore  revolvers,  and  a  dozen 
"Winchester  rifles  stood  in  a  row  against  the  wall.  The 
Alcalde,  who  seemed  to  be  in  command  of  these  very 
irregular  forces,  stepped  forward  as  Barwood  opened 
the  door. 

"Will  the  gentleman  join  us  ?  "  he  asked  in  Spanish. 

"  The  gentleman  seems  well  disposed,"  Barwood  an 
swered  ;  ''  but  as  yet  he  does  not  speak  positively.  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  showing  him  these  gentlemen,  our 
friends,  in  order  to  convince  him  that  to  ask  assistance 
from  the  Americans  now  coining  on  the  train  will  not 
be  wise.  You,  Sefior  Alcalde,  will  oblige  me  by  ac 
companying  us  to  the  station  ;  and  you,  gentlemen,  will 
understand  what  to  do  should  any  trouble  arise." 

And  then  he  added,  in  English  :  "  But  I  guess  there 
won't  be  any  rumpus;  eh,  Hardy?  You'd  only  get 
left  if  you  tried  it  on,  you  see." 

Hardy  was  forced  to  admit  to  himself,  as  with  Bar- 
Avood  and  the  Alcalde  he  mounted  the  station  platform 
just  as  the  train  came  to  a  halt,  that  an  appeal  for  help 
would  be  worse  than  useless.  It  would  do  him  no 
good,  and  it  almost  certainly  would  result  in  the  killing 
of  every  man  in  the  freight  crew. 

There  was  nothing  to  throw  off  or  take  on  at  the 
station,  and  in  a  couple  of  minutes  the  train  pulled  out 
and  ran  slowly  down  the  grade  to  the  tank.  For  a  mo 
ment,  as  it  started,  Hardy  thought  of  breaking  away 
from  Barwood's  side,  jumping  on  the  engine  and  throw- 


284:  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ing  the  valve  wide  open — trusting  to  the  sudden  start 
at  full  speed  to  snap  the  coupling  with  the  train — and 
so  taking  the  chances  of  getting  off.  Barwood  seemed 
to  understand  this  thought,  and  checked  it. 

"  You'd  better  not  try  any  monkey  tricks,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  You'd  only  get  hurt ;  t'  say  nothin'  of  get- 
tin'  th'  boys  on  th'  train  into  trouble.  My  Greasers  are 
a  fightin'  lot,  an'  won't  stand  any  foolishness  just  now 
— an'  I  won't,  neither." 

So  the  train  moved  away,  and  Hardy  watched  it  as 
it  slid  along  the  rails,  much  as  a  man  floating  on  a  spar 
in  mid-ocean  would  watch  a  passing  vessel  that  he  could 
not  hail  without  at  once  bringing  death  to  himself  and 
to  all  on  board.  As  he  realized  the  devilish  ingenuity 
with  which  Barwood  had  laid  his  plans,  and  perceived 
how  completely,  so  far,  he  had  been  a  puppet  in  Bar- 
wood's  hands,  a  chill  went  down  into  his  heart.  But 
the  chill  was  only  momentary.  Instantly  a  healthy  re 
action  of  hot  anger  set  in,  and  with  it  came  renewed 
confidence  in  himself.  He  was  in  a  tight  place — a  very 
tight  place,  certainly  ;  but  he  had  been  in  tight  places  a 
good  many  times  before,  and  always  had  managed  to 
get  himself  out  of  them.  It  would  not  be  his  fault  if 
he  did  not  down  Barwood  and  his  gang  of  Greasers 
yet. 

The  engine  took  in  water  at  the  tank,  and  then, 
puffing  vigorously,  slowly  ascended  the  long  grade. 
They  watched  it  in  silence  until  the  train  had  shrunk 
to  a  mere  speck  and  the  puffing  of  the  engine  no  longer 
could  be  heard. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think,  Hardy,  that  I  don't  be 
lieve  you're  not  going  to  play  fair,"  Barwood  said,  as 


SAINT  MARY   OF  THE  ANGELS.  285 

they  turned  about  and  faced  each  other,  "  but  it'll  save 
you  from  beiii'  lonesome  if  my  friend  Don  Pedro  here 
an'  one  or  t\vo  of  th'  boys  sort  of  set  around  air  keep 
you  company.  I  know  you  wouldn't  do  it  on  purpose, 
but  if  you  was  left  by  yourself  you  might  kind  of  acci 
dentally  get  t'  foolin'  with  that  telegraph-key,  you 
know,  in  a  way  that  wouldn't  be  just  altogether  whole 
some  ;  so  it's  safer  for  all  hands  that  you  sha'irt  have 
th'  chance.  Don  Pedro  is  a  very  pleasant  gentleman, 
an'  you'll  find  him  ready  t'  tell  you  all  about  th'  busi 
ness — goin'  into  th'  fine  points  oft  as  I  hadn't  time  to. 
I'd  like  t'  stay  an'  keep  you  company  myself,  but  I've 
got  a  good  deal  t'  do  just  now,  an.'  can't.  We've  got 
quite  a  piece  of  work  on  hand  for  t'-night,  that  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  a  little  later — when  you've  made  up  your 
mind,  as  I  know  you're  goin'  to,  t'  come  into  the  con 
cern.  Just  you  think  about  what  I've  been  tellin'  you, 
an'  about  what  Don  Pedro  will  tell  you,  too,  about  what 
a  good  business  'tis,  an'  don't  you  throw  away  th'  best 
chance  for  makin'  a  big  strike  you've  ever  had  offered 
t'  you.  An'  though  I  really  don't  like  t'  speak  about 
it,  don't  forget  what  I  was  sayin'  about  that  American 
graveyard  ;  an'  don't  you  forget " — here  Barwood  came 
close  to  Hardy  and  lowered  his  voice — "  what  I  said 
about  Mary :  if  you'll  come  in,  she's  yours." 

Hardy  made  no  reply.  Barwood  accepted  his  silence 
in  good  part,  nodded  pleasantly,  and  walked  off  toward 
the  town.  The  Alcalde  went  with  him,  and  at  the 
ruined  house  they  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  in  con 
sultation.  Then  the  Alcalde  and  two  men  returned  and 
walked  away  down  the  line  of  the  railroad,  two  more 
men  came  over  and  joined  Don  Pedro  at  the  station, 


286  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

and  the  rest  straggled  off  toward  the  town  in  Barwood's 
wake. 

Hardy  walked  into  the  station  and  seated  himself 
heside  the  table  on  which  was  the  telegraph  instrument. 
Don  Pedro  followed  after  him  closely,  and  the  two  men 
placed  themselves  just  outside  the  door. 

"  It  will  be  more  commodious  for  the  Sefior  if  he 
will  seat  himself  where  he  will  have  the  pleasure  of  the 
fresh  air,"  said  Don  Pedro,  politely. 

"  Thanks,  Scfior,  I  am  very  well  here,"  Hardy  an 
swered. 

"  But — the  Sefior  will  pardon  me  ? — but  the  Seilor's 
hand  might  inadvertently  touch  the  little  machine.  It 
is  better  for  him  here." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Hardy,  "  I  comprehend,"  and  he  moved 
his  chair. 

"  And  since  the  Sefior,  who  is  among  friends,  can 
have  no  use  for  it,  I  am  sure  that  he  will  give  me  his 
pistol  to  take  care  of  for  him  ? " 

Hardy  was  disposed  to  argue  this  request ;  but,  as 
he  hesitated,  the  men  in  the  doorway  moved  forward 
into  the  room  and  ranged  up  beside  him.  Under  these 
circumstances  argument  was  out  of  place.  With  a  very 
bad  grace  he  yielded.  Don  Pedro  waved  his  hand  po 
litely,  and  declared  in  courteous  tones  that  he  owed  the 
Sefior  a  thousand  thanks. 

He  was  a  red-faced,  dirty,  villainous-looking  dog, 
this  Don  Pedro,  but  his  voice  was  gentle  and  low,  his 
language  was  conspicuously  elegant,  and  his  manners 
were  above  reproach.  In  the  event  of  his  finding  it 
necessary  to  commit  a  murder,  he  was  quite  the  sort  of 
man  to  apologize  to  his  victim  in  well-chosen  words, 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  287 

and  with  a  certain  amount  of  sincerity.  Being  natu 
rally  a  loquacious  personage,  he  made  several  attempts 
to  draw  Hardy  into  conversation,  but  without  suc 
cess. 

"  The  Senor,  no  doubt,  lias  much  upon  his  mind," 
lie  said  at  last.  a  He  wishes  to  meditate  upon  the  good 
fortune  that  we  oiler  him.  lie  is  quite  right,  and  I 
shall  disturb  him  no  more.  He  will  join  me  in  smok 
ing?"  Hardy  shook  his  head.  "  !No  ?  Ah,  then,  he 
will  pardon  me  if  I  smoke  alone." 

Saying  which,  Don  Pedro  unrolled  a  cigarrito, 
brushed  away  a  part  of  the  tobacco,  re-rolled  it  firmly, 
lighted  it  with  a  double-headed  match,  and  then  settled 
himself  as  comfortably  as  the  circumstances  of  the  case 
would  permit  on  a  seat  improvised  from  a  nail-keg, 
and  apparently  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the  pure 
happiness  of  smoking. 

That  l)on  Pedro's  abstraction  was  more  apparent 
than  real  was  shown  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been  care 
ful  to  seat  himself  between  Hardy  and  the  telegraph 
instrument.  And  Hardy  noticed  also  that  when  the 
men  outside  lit  their  cigarritos—&&  they  presently  did, 
of  course — the  little  ceremony  of  unwrapping,  re  wrap 
ping,  and  lighting  was  performed  in  turn,  so  that  one 
of  them  watched  him  constantly,  alert  and  with  free 
hands.  They  all  seemed  to  think  that  a  single  touch 
upon  the  key  of  the  telegraph  would  suffice  to  give  the 
alarm  ;  and  they  all  evidently  had  a  wholesome  respect 
for  Hardy's  strength  and  courage,  and  were  determined 
to  guard  against  the  possibility  of  his  taking  them  by 
surprise.  As  he  perceived  how  sharply  they  watched 
him,  the  saying  current  on  the  border  that  one  Ameri- 


288  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

can  can  whip  three  Mexicans  came  into  his  mind  ;  and 
he  smiled  grimly  as  he  thought  that  these  three  Mexi 
cans  certainly  were  conducting  themselves  as  though 
they  believed  that  the  saying  was  true.  But  for  the  cer 
tainty  that  the  sound  of  shooting  would  bring  all  the 
men  in  the  town  about  his  ears,  he  would  have  given 
them  a  chance — unarmed  though  he  was — to  settle  the 
matter  by  a  practical  experiment ;  and  he  rather  flat 
tered  himself  that  the  saying  would  be  confirmed  by 
the  result.  Probably  he  was  over-confident,  for  the 
Mexicans  were  so  keenly  alive  to  his  smallest  move 
ment  that  any  demonstration  of  hostility  on  his  part 
would  have  been  nipped  in  the  bud.  Even  when  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  his  pipe,  they  all  three — 
forgetting  for  the  moment  that  they  had  taken  his  pistol 
from  him — were  on  their  feet  in  an  instant,  and  had 
him  covered  with  their  revolvers.  lie  threw  up  his 
hands  promptly  and  explained  his  intentions,  and  with 
rather  a  sheepish  look  they  sat  down  again.  But  while 
lie  could  not  help  laughing  to  himself,  he  perceived  that 
the  odds  against  him  were  even  heavier  than  he  had 
taken  them  to  be.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  ad 
mitted  the  thought  that  perhaps  he  had  got  into  a  ecrape 
that  he  could  not  get  out  of. 

Hardy  smoked  gloomily.  The  outlook,  so  far  as  he 
himself  was  concerned,  did  not  greatly  trouble  him.  He 
had  not  found  life  so  pleasant  that  the  near  prospect  of 
parting  with  it  occasioned  him  regret.  But  the  thought 
of  what  the  loss  of  his  life  \vould  mean  to  Mary  filled 
him  with  a  keen  misery.  He  could  see  no  hope  for  her 
at  all.  There  was  no  one  to  help  her.  She  could  not 
help  herself.  He  doubted  even  if  she  had  a  sufficient 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  289 

strength  of  purpose  to  seek  in  death  the  one  desperate 
chance  of  escape  left  open  to  her.  Unless  her  husband 
should  be  shot  or  hung — of  which,  of  course,  there  was 
a  fairly  hopeful  probability — her  present  wretched  ex 
istence  might  drag  on  for  years  and  years.  Of  course, 
she  would  die  of  it,  or  be  driven  mad  by  it,  at  last ;  but 
what  grinding  agony  would  be  hers  until,  in  death  or 
madness,  she  found  her  release  ! 

Slowly  the  time  wore  away.  The  day  was  nearly 
ended,  and  little  puffs  of  cool  wind  broke  through  the 
hot,  dense  air,  and  brought  with  them  a  delectable  re 
freshment.  Gradually  these  puffs  gathered  force  and 
increased  in  frequency,  becoming  a  strong,  fresh  breeze 
as  the  sun  dropped  down  behind  the  mountains  and  twi 
light  settled  upon  the  earth.  Hardy,  who  had  eaten 
nothing  since  breakfast-time,  grew  desperately  hungry  ; 
and  his  Mexican  guards  sniffed  longingly  at  the  relish 
ing  smells  which  came  down  to  them  on  the  wind  from 
the  many  outdoor  cookings  going  on  about  the  town. 
But  they  showed  no  disposition  to  surrender  to  the  crav 
ings  of  the  flesh.  Evidently  they  had  their  orders  and 
meant  to  obey  them.  As  the  twilight  deepened  into 
dusk  they  came  closer  to  him. 

"  Only  a  little  while  longer,  Sefior,"  Don  Pedro  said, 
cheerfully,  as  this  change  was  made. 

Hardy  wondered  what  was  going  to  happen  at  the 
end  of  the  little  Avhile,  but  he  did  not  speak.  The  dead 
silence  in  which  they  sat  was  broken  only  by  the  clatter 
of  the  telegraph,  as  from  time  to  time  a  message  went 
over  the  line.  There  was  something  harrowing  in  this 
sound.  It  made  help  seem  so  near,  while  in  reality 
help  was  so  hopelessly  far  away.  The  dispatches  going 
19 


290  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

through  were  on  Company's  service — trair.  orders  and 
the  like.  Hardy  listened  to  them  idly,  repeating  in  his 
mind  the  words  as  they  were  built  up  from  the  inter 
mittent  sounds.  For  a  while  there  was  silence.  The 
room  was  quite  dark  now,  save  that  for  a  little  space 
within  each  doorway  there  shone  a  faint,  hazy  light 
from  the  stars.  It  must  be  about  eight  o'clock,  Hardy 
thought ;  in  two  hours  more  Barwood  would  demand 
his  answer.  "Well,  he  was  ready  to  give  it.  The  moon 
would  be  rising  about  that  time — the  last  moonrise  that 
he  ever  would  see.  It  was  odd  to  stop  off  short  this 
way,  right  in  the  middle  of  one's  life.  It  was  like  buy 
ing  a  through  ticket  to  Chicago  and  being  fired  off  the 
train  at  a  way-station  somewhere  out  on  the  plains.  It 
didn't  seem  like  a  fair  deal.  Here  the  noise  of  the  tele 
graph  broke  in  once  more  upon  his  thoughts.  An  order 
was  going  through  to  the  north-bound  passenger  train 
that  would  pass  Santa  Maria  between  three  and  four 
o'clock  the  following  morning  : 

"Side-track  at  Los  Angelitos  for  the  down — "  then 
the  ticking  stopped. 

Hardy  listened  for  the  sound  to  begin  again.  Five 
minutes  passed,  and  still  the  dispatch  was  left  unfinished. 
Five  minutes  more,  and  only  silence.  At  the  end  of 
fifteen  minutes — the  time  had  seemed  a  full  hour — he 
drew  a  long  breath  as  the  truth  of  the  situation  forced 
itself  home  on  him  :  they  had  cut  the  wires  ! 

YIIL 

HARDY  realized  that  his  case  was  desperate.  About 
all  that  was  left  for  him  to  do,  he  concluded,  was  to  die 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  291 

game.  lie  remembered  once  having  seen  a  rat  let  out 
of  a  trap  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  terriers.  Now  he 
knew  what  the  feelings  of  the  rat  must  have  been.  It 
was  rather  late  in  the  day  to  be  sorry  for  that  rat,  but 
he  was  sorry  for  it,  very. 

While  he  meditated  in  this  dismal  fashion  he  heard 
the  distant  sound  of  horses  galloping.  As  the  sound 
grew  louder  he  perceived  that  it  came  from  two  direc 
tions  ;  then  he  heard  clearly  the  splashing  of  hoofs  in 
the  water  as  a  horse  crossed  the  river  at  the  ford  and 
entered  the  town  from  the  north,  and  a  few  moments 
later  a  man  on  horseback  passed  close  by  the  station, 
coming  up  the  track  from  the  south.  Don  Pedro  rose 
and  stretched  himself. 

"  Glory  to  God ! "  he  said,  fervently.  "  We  now 
can  have  something  to  eat." 

But  almost  half  an  hour  passed  before  Don  Pedro 
was  permitted  to  realize  this  piously  expressed  longing. 
Then  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  was  heard,  and 
Barwood,  carrying  a  lantern,  entered  the  station,  fol 
lowed  by  a  couple  of  Mexicans.  With  the  arrival  of 
this  relief,  Don  Pedro  and  the  other  two  watchers  were 
off  like  shots  to  their  suppers.  Barwood  put  down  his 
lantern,  lighted  the  kerosene-lamp  on  the  table,  and 
seated  himself  beside  it.  He  was  clad  in  full  ranchero 
costume  :  tight-fitting  trousers,  girded  with  a  red  sash, 
and  adorned  with  rows  of  silver  buttons  down  the  out 
side  of  the  legs;  short  jacket;  wide-brimmed  sombrero  ; 
yellow  boots,  and  great  spurs.  In  this  dress,  the  illu 
sion  being  assisted  by  his  dark  hair  and  beard  and  black 
eyes,  he  looked  so  thoroughly  Mexican  that  until  he 
spoke  Hardy  did  not  recognize  him. 


292  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

"Nice  rig,  ain't  it?"  he  said,  with  a  grin.  "An' 
it's  as  useful  as  it's  pretty.  For  tli'  little  game  that  I'm 
goin'  t'  play  t'-uight  I  don't  'specially  care  t'  have  any 
of  my  friends  recognize  me — an'  I  rather  guess  they 
won't.  As  a  Mexican  I  should  say  that  I  was  solid." 
He  chuckled  a  little,  and  then  went  on  :  "  My  friends 
here  don't  understand  English,  so  we  can  speak  right 
out,  free  an'  comfortable.  What  sort  of  a  time  have 
you  an'  Don  Pedro  been  havin'  ?  Did  he  talk  matters 
over  with  you  any  ? " 

"  No,"  Hardy  answered,  shortly,  "  he  didn't." 

"  Well,  I  dun-know  as  't  makes  much  difference. 
I've  given  you  th'  main  fac's,  an'  that's  all  you  need  t' 
make  up  your  mind  on.  Have  you  got  down  t'  bed 
rock  yet,  or  are  you  still  scratchin'  around  in  th'  gravel  ? 
Times's  pretty  near  up,  you  know." 

"  I  guess  I've  got  down  to  about  as  much  bed-rock 
as  I'm  likely  to  get  to." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  You  can  begin  your  shooting  whenever  you  d n 

please." 

"  Whoa  !  Steady  !  Now,  who's  been  sayin'  any 
thing  t'  you  about  shootin'  ?  That  mildewed  fool  of  a 
Don  Pedro,  I  s'pose.  An' — well,  yes,  come  to  think  of 
it,  I  b'lieve  I  did  kinder  hint  about  somethin'  of  that 
sort  myself.  But  that's  only  in  case  you  won't  come  in, 
you  know — an'  I  think  you're  comin'  all  right.  Now, 
just  you  listen  t'  me.  This  afternoon  I  couldn't  speak 
out  as  free  as  I  wanted  to.  It  would  'a'  been  takin'  mos' 
too  many  chances  if  I'd  talked  out  before  th'  up  train 
had  passed,  an'  while  th'  telegraph  was  workin' — you've 
caught  on,  I  guess,  t'  th'  telegraph  bein'  busted  ? " 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE   ANGELS.  203 

Hardy  nodded. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  had,  for  you're  one  of  th'  quick 
kind.  Well,  then,  you  see  I  really  can  talk  right  out  t' 
you,  for  nothin'  you  can  do  now  can  do  no  hurt.  You 
can't  mend  th'  wires,  for  th'  cuts  are  a  pretty  long  ways 
off,  both  sides ;  an'  if  you  tried  t'  walk  off  anywhere — 
well,  if  you  tried  t'  walk  off,  I  s'posQ  some  of  that  fool 
talk  you  say  Don  Pedro's  been  givin'  you  about  shootin' 
would  come  true.  Yes,  I  really  s'pose  't  would. 

"  Xow,  maybe  you've  sized  things  up  so  's  t'  know 
that  just  for  a  little  thing  like  droppin'  on  you— in  case 
we  have  to  do  it,  that  is — I  wouldn't  bother  t'  dress  up 
in  Mexican  fashion,  an'  none  on  us  would  tackle  such  a 
risky  game  as  cuttin'  th'  telegraph  wires.  An'  so  may 
be  you've  got  hold  of  th'  idea  that  there's  somethin'  up 
that's  really  worth  talkin'  about,  eh  ? " 

Hardy  had  not  reached  any  such  conclusion,  and 
Barwood's  words  took  him  by  surprise.  In  common 
with  most  men,  he  regarded  the  taking  of  his  life  as 
the  most  important  event  that  possibly  could  happen— 
forgetting  that  this  is  one  of  the  cases  in  which  the  dif 
ference  between  the  personal  and  impersonal  stand 
points  marks  also  a  difference  between  importance  and 
triviality.  He  had  regarded,  therefore,  the  cutting  of 
the  wires,  and  Barwood's  assumption  of  Mexican  dress 
by  way  of  disguise,  as  natural  measures  of  prudence 
which  so  grave  a  matter  as  his  prospective  murder 
abundantly  justified.  Indeed,  he  had  accepted  the  cut 
ting  of  the  wires  as  a  sure  sign  that  his  murder  had 
been  irrevocably  decided  upon.  But  this  present 
ment  of  the  case  from  the  standpoint  of  an  impartial 
outsider,  while  it  was  sufficiently  convincing  and  some- 


294  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

what  humiliating,  was  not  enlightening.  He  looked 
puzzled. 

"  So  you  haven't  tumbled  to  it  ? "  Barwood  went  on. 
"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  you're  not  quite  as  quick  as  I 
thought  you  was.  Yes  siree,  we've  got  somethin'  on 
hand  for  t'-night  that  really  is  worth  talkin'  about. 
It's  a  joy,  it  is.  Why,  man,  there's  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  coined  silver  on  th'  up  train  t'-night, 
an'  we  mean  t'  have  it !  Now,  how  does  that  strike 
you?" 

Hardy  looked  steadily  at  Barwood  and  made  no  an 
swer.  He  was  strongly  disposed  to  believe  that  Bar- 
wood  was  lying. 

"  It's  th'  everlastin'  truth,"  Barwood  went  on,  per 
ceiving  the  look  of  doubt  on  Hardy's  face,  and  answer 
ing  it.  "  It's  just  th'  solid,  everlastin'  truth.  "We've  been 
layin'  for  this  haul  for  th'  past  two  months — wa'itin'  for 
enough  of  th'  stuff  t'  come  along  in  one  lump  t'  make  it 
worth  while  t'  strike  for  't.  Now  it's  comin',  an'  we're 
goin'  t'  get  in  our  work." 

"  How  are  you  going  about  it  ? "  Hardy  asked. 

"  Well,  we've  sort  of  fixed  things  down  to  the  Bar 
ranca  Grande.  I  forgot,  you  don't  know  nothin'  about 
th'  Barranca  Grande,  or  where  't  is.  It's  a  big  barranca, 
six  or  seven  kilometres  down  th'  line.  It's  a  hundred 
feet  deep,  I  guess,  in  th'  middle,  an'  there's  a  wooden 
trestle  acrost  it  about  four  hundred  feet  long.  As  soon 
as  Number  Two  went  acrost  this  afternoon  some  of  th' 
boys  got  t'  work  at  that  trestle — an'  'tain't  in  near  as 
good  order  now  as  'twas  when  they  begun.  Th'  com 
pany's  been  promisin'  an'  promisin'  th'  Government  for 
th'  last  six  months  they'd  put  in  th'  permanent  bridge 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  295 

over  that  barranca — I  guess  they'll  go  t'  work  an'  do 
't  now." 

"  You  mean  that  you've  cut  that  trestle  so  that  the 
passenger  train  will  go  down  into  the  barranca  f " 
Hardy's  heart  stopped  beating  as  he  asked  this  ques 
tion,  and  even  his  lips  became  white.  But  he  kept  his 
voice  steady,  and  in  the  dim  light  Barwood  did  not  see 
the  paleness  of  his  face. 

"  In  a  gen'ral  sort  of  way  that's  about  the  size  of 
it,"  Barwood  answered.  "  At  first,  we  was  just  goin  t' 
hold  up  th'  train  an'  go  through  th'  express  car.  I'd 
rather  'a'  done  it  that  way,  too.  But  I  settled  that  that 
way  would  be  too  risky.  You  see,  th'  trouble  is,  I  can't 

more  'n  half  trust  these  d n  Greasers.  If  th'  folks 

on  th'  train  tried  t'  stand  us  off,  it's  more  'n  likely  th' 
Greasers  'u'd  just  drop  th'  whole  business  an'  skip  out. 

They're  curs,  d n  curs,  that's  what  Greasers  is  for 

th'  mos'  part.  So  that's  why  we  settled  t'  do  th'  job 
this  way.  I  can't  say  I  just  altogether  like  it,  but  I 
guess  it's  sure.  With  things  all  in  a  heap  in  th'  bottom 
of  th'  barranca,  an'  th'  cars  afire,  more  n'  likely,  an'  no 
body  much  in  any  kind  of  shape  for  fightin' — well,  I 
guess  even  Greasers  can  manage  a  job  like  that  without 
gettin'  skeert  an'  runnin'  away.  An'  th'  haul  is  a  daisy 
one  !  Think  of  it !  Two  hundred  thousand  dollars  at 
one  whack  !  It's  more'n  we  could  make  in  smugglin' 
and  stock-stealin'  in  ten  years  !  " 

In  his  excitement  Barwood  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  emphasizing  his  words  with  short  jerks  of  his 
head  and  eager  movements  of  his  hands.  * 

"  An'  now  that  you  know  the  whole  business, 
Hardy,"  he  went  on,  "  will  you  or  will  you  not  come 


296  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

in  ?  I  think  it's  pretty  d n  liberal  in  me  t'  give  you 

th'  chance ;  but  th'  fact  of  th'  matter  is  I  never  can 
more  'n  half  trust  these  Greasers,  an'  in  a  job  of  this 
size  I  want  somebody  along  as  I  know  I  can  tie  to. 
There'll  be  about  twenty  of  us  in  th'  job,  an'  that'll 
make  ten  thousand  dollars  apiece  when  we  come  t' 
divide  up.  Ten  thousand  dollars  for  one  night's  work 
strikes  me  as  bein'  about  th'  everlastin'est  biggest  wages 
I've  ever  knowed  a  man  to  earn.  Tell  me,  is  it  a  go  ? " 

In  the  indignation  aroused  by  Barwood's  cool  pre 
sentment  of  this  devilish  project,  and  in  his  eager  de 
sire  to  prevent  it,  Hardy  had  lost  sight  completely  of 
his  own  present  danger  and  utter  helplessness.  His 
mind  was  working  so  actively,  indeed,  to  find  a  means 
whereby  he  could  upset  this  plan  for  train-wrecking, 
robbery,  and  murder  that  he  did  not  hear  Barwood's 
question  in  conclusion,  and  did  not  reply  to  it.  Evi 
dently  taking  his  silence  for  hesitation,  Barwood  con 
tinued  : 

"  Of  course,  I'm  bound  t'  tell  you  onct  more — 
though  sech  talk  ain't  pleasant  atween  friends — that  if 
you  don't  come  in,  things  is  about  up  with  you.  An' 
perhaps,  I'd  better  remind  you  of  what  I  was  savin' 
about  Mary.  What  you  see  in  Mary,  the  Lord  only 
knows — it's  more  'n  I  do  !.  But  since  you  do  see  some- 
thin'  in  her,  I  tell  you  again  I'll  chuck  her  into  th'  bar 
gain,  along  with  that  ten  thousand  dollars  that  is  waitin' 
for  you  now  in  th'  express  car  that  at  this  minute  is 
a-comin'  up  th'  road.  Don't  be  bashful  on  my  account. 
I'm  pretty  well  fixed,  I  guess,  t'  get  along  without  her. 
An'  don't  you  forget  that  the  money  chance  I'm  givin' 
you  ain't  th'  kind  that  comes  twict  in  any  man's  life- 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  297 

time — accordin'  t'  my  experience  it's  mighty  d n  sel 
dom  it  comes  onct. 

"  ]STow,  I'm  goin'  over  t'  see  tliat  my  Greasers  have 
got  things  straight  in  their  fool  heads  about  what 
they've  got  to  do.  They're  a  dumb  lot.  The  Alcalde's 
th'  best  of  'em — he's  down  t'  th'  trestle  now,  bossin' 
things — but  even  he's  more  'n  half  a  fool  when  he's 
sober,  'an  a  good  deal  more  'n  half  crazy  when  he's 
drunk.  Lord  !  what  a  relief  it'll  be  t'  have  you  around 
t'  help  t'  look  after  'em  ! 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  little  while,  an'  when  I  come  I 
expect  t'  find  you  gettin'  your  hat  on  ready  t'  start.  It's 
taken  you  sort  of  sudden,  I  see,  an'  that's  the  reason  I'm 
not  hurryin'  you  for  an  answer.  But  don't  you  forget 
what  it  is  you're  choosin'  atween :  it's  havin'  Mary  an' 

ten  thousand  dollars,  or  goin'  by  a  d n  short  cut  to 

kingdom  come ! " 

"With  this  valedictory  Barwood  departed,  the  two 
Mexicans  remaining  on  guard  just  outside  the  door. 
In  a  moment  he  came  back  again. 

"  I  forgot  you  aint  had  any  supper,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  send  some  over  t'  you — you  must  be  hungrier'n 
th'  devil."  As  he  turned  away  he  added  with  a  grin : 
"  An'  I'll  fix  things  so's  you  won't  be  lonely  while 
you're  eatin'  it,  either." 

As  he  passed  the  two  Mexicans  Hardy  heard  him 
say:  "The  Sefior  is  composing  his  mind  to  join  us. 
He's  all  right."  He  added  something  in  a  lower  voice, 
of  which  Hardy  caught  only  the  words  "  Sefiora  "  and 
"  keep  out  of  the  way."  Then  the  sound  of  his  foot 
steps  died  away  as  he  walked  toward  the  town.  One 
of  the  Mexicans  turned  with  a  friendly  nod  toward 


298  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  prisoner.     "  The  Sefior  is  very  wise  to  join  us,"  he 
said. 

IX. 

IT  was  evident  that  a  climax  was  approaching  rap 
idly.  Hardy's  excitement  was  intense,  but  he  did  not 
lose  his  coolness.  His  nerves  were  strung  to  the  high 
est  pitch,  but  he  had  them  absolutely  under  control. 
For  the  accomplishment  of  such  a  piece  of  work  as  he 
perceived  was  cut  out  for  him  this  was  not  a  bad  state 
to  be  in.  His  mind  was  in  admirable  condition  to  plan, 
and  his  bodily  strength  to  execute  was  increased  pro 
digiously.  The  fact  that  his  situation  already  was  des 
perate,  made  him  absolutely  indifferent  to  danger.  The 
thought  of  the  tremendous  responsibility  that  rested 
upon  him — for  he  alone  could  prevent,  if  prevention 
were  possible,  this  imminent  wholesale  murder — gave 
him  a  firm  foundation  of  moral  purpose  and  high  re 
solve.  Under  these  conditions,  a  strong,  simple  nature, 
such  as  Hardy's  was,  rises  readily  to  the  plane  of  the 
heroic. 

Before  the  sound  of  Barwood's  footsteps  had  quite 
died  away  he  had  conceived  the  outlines  of  the  only 
practicable  plan  for  succor  that  the  circumstances  of 
the  case  allowed.  The  best  thing  to  be  done,  of  course, 
was  to  get  to  the  first  station  on  the  other  side  of  the 
cut  in  the  wires,  and  telegraph  a  warning  to  the  ad 
vancing  train.  But  this  he  had  rejected  as  impossible. 
Supposing  that  he  should  be  successful  in  breaking 
away  from  his  guards — the  first  point  to  be  gained  in 
any  event — it  was  clear  from  what  Barwood  had  said 
about  the  work  of  destroying  the  trestle  still  being  in 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  299 

progress  that  he  could  not  hope  to  go  down  the  line  of 
the  railroad  without  being  discovered.  That  there  was 
a  trail  parallel  with  the  railroad  was  probable,  but  he 
did  not  know  where  to  find  it ;  and  to  try  to  work  his 
way  through  the  chaparral  in  the  darkness — an  under 
taking  of  great  difficulty,  even  in  broad  daylight — was 
not  even  worth  considering.  His  plan,  therefore,  was 
to  go  up  the  track,  away  from  the  scene  of  the  intended 
wreck,  to  the  first  station  beyond  the  cut  in  the  wires, 
and  thence  telegraph  for  assistance.  This  was  not  a  sure 
thing,  like  the  other ;  but  there  was  ground  for  strong 
hope  that  a  force  of  men  could  be  collected  at  the  north 
ern  terminus  and  could  be  run  down  by  a  fast  engine 
to  the  Barranca  Grande  in  time  to  scatter,  or  possibly 
capture,  the  wreckers,  and  give  warning  to  the  north 
bound  train.  The  next  station  north,  Las  Palomas,  was 
fifteen  miles  away.  Three  hours  would  be  the  shortest 
time  in  which  he  could  make  this  distance  on  foot ;  and 
three  hours  would  be  a  perilously  large  amount  of  time 
to  take  from  the  six  hours  intervening  before  the  ar 
rival  of  the  up  train  at  the  broken  trestle — and  he  still 
had  to  make  his  escape  from  his  guards. 

It  was  strong  evidence  in  favor  of  Hardy's  coolness 
that  he  decided  not  to  begin  operations  until  he  had 
eaten  the  supper  that  Barwood  had  promised  to  send 
over  to  him.  His  excitement  kept  him  from  feeling 
hungry,  notwithstanding  his  long  fast,  but  he  knew  that 
he  needed  the  strength  that  food  would  give.  A  fight 
for  life  with  two  Mexicans,  followed  by  a  fifteen-mile 
dash  on  foot  along  so  trying  a  course  as  a  railway  track, 
made  a  combination  of  arduous  difficulties  that  he  wisely 
decided  had  better  not  be  assailed  on  an  empty  stomach. 


300  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

In  the  mean  time,  since  his  only  chance  of  getting  clear 
of  his  guards  lay  in  taking  them  by  surprise  and  so 
mastering  them,  he  set  himself  to  developing  with  them 
something  in  the  nature  of  friendly  relations.  Fortu 
nately,  Barwood's  too-assured  statement  that  the  Senor 
was  composing  his  mind  to  take  part  in  the  robbery 
made  them  quite  ready  to  meet  his  amicable  advances. 
They  talked  freely  of  the  projected  wreck,  and  with 
great  satisfaction  of  their  anticipated  dollars.  They 
even — thus  exhibiting  an  amiable  national  character 
istic — went  so  far  as  to  express  their  sorrow  for  the 
passengers  and  train-hands  destined  to  be  wounded  or 
killed.  "  Poor  little  ones !  It  is  very  sad  !  "  they  said. 

While  this .  pleasing  conversation  went  on,  Hardy 
was  startled  by  hearing  what  seemed  to  be  the  sound 
of  an  approaching  train.  He  raised  his  head  and  list 
ened.  One  of  the  Mexicans  noticed  his  motion  and  at 
the  same  time  heard  the  noise.  "  Be  not  alarmed, 
Senor,"  he  said  reassuringly ;  "  it  is  only  the  little  car 
on  which  the  Alcalde  returns."  A  couple  of  minutes 
later  a  hand-car,  with  two  men  working  the  brake,  ap 
peared  for  a  moment,  as  it  passed  through  the  ray  of 
light  that  the  lamp  in  the  station  shed  across  the  track 
through  the  open  door.  The  car  stopped,  and  the  men 
started  toward  the  town ;  calling  back  in  answer  to  in 
quiries,  that  the  work  at  the  trestle  was  completed,  and 
that  everything  was  all  right.  Hardy's  heart  gave  a 
bound  as  he  saw  the  hand-car ;  if  he  could  get  away  on 
that  he  could  make  the  run  to  Las  Palomas  inside  of 
two  hours,  and  the  salvation  of  the  train  would  be  as 
sured. 

"  Here  comes  your  supper,  Senor,"  said  one  of  the 


SAINT  MARY   OF  THE  AXGELS.  301 

men.  "  Ramon  and  I  will  retire.  The  Sefior  will  not 
be  disturbed  at  his  feast."  The  men  laughed  a  little, 
and  to  Hardy's  surprise  walked  away  through  the  dark 
ness  a  considerable  distance  down  the  platform.  And 
then,  to  his  far  greater  surprise,  through  the  doorway 
came  Mary. 

Hardy  started  forward.     "  You  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Mary's  face  grew  red  ;  and  then,  in  the  moment 
that  they  stood  in  silence,  very  pale. 

"  "Will  made  me  come,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly, 
and  with  a  sort  of  despairing  solemnity.  "  He  told  me 
that  the  train  was  to  be  wrecked  to-night.  He  told  me 
that  you  had  agreed  to  help  in  it  if — if — oh,  John,  I 
can't— 

She  swayed  from  side  to  side,  and  seemed  about  to 
fall.  Hardy  put  out  his  arms  to  support  her,  but  she 
steadied  herself,  and  motioned  him  away  with  a  posi 
tive  fierceness.  "  Don't  touch  me,"  she  said,  "  don't 
dare  to  touch  !  He  told  me,  John — he  dared  to  tell  me 
— that  you  had  agreed  to  help  if — if  he  would  give  you 
me  !  " 

There  was  heroic  grandeur  in  the  tone  of  disdain 
in  which  Mary  uttered  these  words.  But  in  a  moment 
this  gave  place  to  heart-breaking  sorrow  and  entreaty, 
as  she  added,  "  Oh,  John !  John !  for  God's  sake  tell 
me  that  he  lied — or  else  kill  me !  One  or  the  other, 
John,  one  or  the  other — "  she  broke  off  into  a  moan. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  Hardy  to  see  how  Barwood 
— permitting  his  hopes  to  mould  his  convictions,  and 
being  quite  incapable  of  understanding  the  revolt  that 
it  would  stir  up  in  Mary's  soul — had  been  led  into  this 
false  move. 


302  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

He  answered  her  with  an  intense  earnestness : 
"  Mary,  I  swear  to  you  before  heaven  that  it  is  a  most 
damnable  lie ! " 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply.  Then  she  held 
out  her  hands  to  him.  "  Forgive  me,  John,"  she  said. 
"  I  ought  not  to  have  believed  that  it  even  might  be 
true.  But  after — after  what  you  said  to-day,  and  after 
all  that  I  have  seen  and  known  in  these  past  two  years 
— oh,  you  don't  know — it  is  enough  to  make  me  lose 
faith  in  everything.  Thank  God,  though,  it  isn't  true. 
Oh,  thank  God  for  that !  " 

She  came  close  to  him,  and  seemed  to  gather  strength 
as  he  put  his  arm  about  her.  As  he  drew  her  to  him, 
soothing  her,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  smothered  laugh 
in  the  darkness  outside.  Then  he  remembered  Bar- 
wood's  whispered  words  as  he  went  away,  and  connected 
with  them  the  withdrawal  of  the  men  when  Mary  ap 
peared.  Pie  felt  that  he  had  an  account  to  settle  with 
those  two  Mexicans — and  he  hoped  that  he  would  be 
able  to  settle  it  very  soon.  Certainly,  if  the  train  was 
to  be  saved  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  go  into  the  inner 
room  and  shut  the  door.  You  won't  be  afraid  alone  in 
the  dark  in  there  for  a  little  while,  will  you  ?  And, 
Mary,  suppose  you — suppose  you  say  your  prayers  in 
there.  That  sort  of  thing  is  not  much  in  my  line  ;  but 
there's  a  good  deal  to  pray  for  to-night,  and  I  guess  it 
won't  do  any  harm." 

"  Yes,  John,"  she  answered.  She  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  simple  obedience,  as  a  child  might  have  spoken.  He 
led  her  to  the  doorway,  gently  pushed  her  inside,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  303 

She  had  brought  a  basket  of  food.  He  opened  it, 
but  he  found  eating  hard  work.  He  forced  himself  to 
swallow  some  bread  and  meat.  Then,  from  a  bottle  of 
mescal  that  Barwood  thoughtfully  had  put  into  the 
basket,  he  drank  a  good  half-tumblerful  at  a  draught. 
He  felt  the  bracing  effect  of  this  potent  liquor  imme 
diately.  He  was  ready  for  his  work. 


X. 

IN  one  corner  of  the  room  was  an  iron  tamping-bar 
belonging  to  the  section  gang.  He  put  this  within  easy 
reach  of  his  hand.  Then  he  went  to  the  door  and 
called  "  Friends  !  "  The  two  Mexicans  came  toward 
him. 

"  The  SefLor  Barwood  has  sent  me  some  -mescal. 
Let  us  drink  that  all  shall  go  well  to-night." 

The  men  grinned.  He  held  out  to  the  one  called 
Ramon  the  bottle  and  to  the  other  the  glass.  Ramon 
raised  the  bottle  to  pour ;  the  other  man  held  the  glass 
carefully.  This  was  Hardy's  moment  for  action.  In 
an  instant  the  iron  bar  had  risen  like  a  Hash  and  had 
fallen  with  a  dull,  crushing  sound  on  Ramon's  neck. 
He  dropped  like  a  log.  The  other  man  let  the  cnp  fall 
and  started  back,  fumbling  for  his  pistol.  But  before 
he  had  it  free  the  bar  had  risen  and  had  fallen  again,  and 
he,  too,  went  down.  It  was  not  as  clean  a  stroke  as  the 
first  one.  The  man  groaned  and  made  an  effort  to  rise. 
Hardy  sprang  on  his  breast  and  settled  his  hands  tightly 
on  his  throat.  For  a  moment  he  struggled  convulsively  ; 
then  he  grew  quiet.  Presently  his  arms  fell  limply  by 
his  side  and  all  his  muscles  relaxed.  To  make  the  mat- 


304  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

ter  sure,  Hardy  retained  his  grasp  for  a  couple  of  min 
utes  more.  Then,  drawing  a  long  breath,  he  let  go  his 
hold  and  stood  upright.  He  looked  at  Ramon.  There 
was  nothing  to  fear  from  that  quarter.  Ramon  was 
lying  just  where  he  had  fallen.  From  the  ugly  way  in 
which  his  head  was  askew  with  his  shoulders  it  was 
evident  that  his  neck  was  broken.  Beside  him,  lying 
unbroken  and  still  half  full,  was  the  bottle  of  mescal. 

Hardy  felt  faint  and  a  little  sick.  He  picked  up 
the  bottle  of  mescal  and  took  another  drink.  This 
steadied  him.  When  he  had  taken  their  pistols  and 
cartridge-belts  he  dragged  the  two  men  out  from  the 
room  to  the  platform — far  enough  from  the  doorway  in 
the  darkness  to  be  out  of  range  of  Mary's  eyes.  Then 
he  opened  the  door  of  the  inner  room  and  called  to  her. 
She  was  on  her  knees. 

"  You  must  be  strong  and  brave,  Mary,"  he  said. 
"  Our  one  chance  of  saving  our  own  lives  and  of  saving 
the  train  from  being  wrecked  is  to  get  to  Las  Palomas 
on  the  hand-car.  Come." 

"  But  how  can  we,  John  ?  The  men  won't  let  us 
go." 

"  The  men  won't  bother  us."  he  answered,  grimly. 
"  At  least,  not  the  ones  left  here  to  watch  us.  They  are 
not  keeping  very  good  watch  just  now." 

"  John,"  she  asked,  in  a  low,  horrified  voice,  "  have 
you  murdered  them  ? " 

"  Never  mind  about  the  men,"  he  said,  speaking 
quickly.  "  Any  court  of  justice  in  the  land — even  a 
Mexican  court  of  justice  —  would  have  hung  them. 
What  we  have  to  think  about  now  is  ourselves;  or,  if 
you  don't  care  for  yourself,  think  of  the  passengers  on 


SAINT  MARY   OF  THE  ANGELS.  305 

that  train.  Come,  Mary ;  for  God's  sake,  come !  Every 
second  that  we  lose  here  may  make  ns  too  late." 

He  caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  dragged  her  through 
the  outer  room,  across  the  platform,  and  down  to  where 
the  hand-car  was  standing  on  the  track.  He  saw  her 
give  a  shuddering  glance  around,  and  heard  her  sigh  of 
relief.  The  skirt  of  her  dress  was  touching  one  of  the 
dead  men  as  she  gave  this  sigh,  but  the  merciful  dark 
ness  hid  from  her  the  sight  that  she  had  expected,  and 
had  so  dreaded  to  see.  Five  minutes  later  she  would 
not  thus  have  been  spared,  for  above  the  mountains  al 
ready  shone  the  glowing  light  of  the  rising  moon. 

"  Remember,"  he  whispered,  "  we  are  working  to 
save  innocent  lives,  which  surely  will  be  lost  if  we  fail. 
Don't  speak  out  loud.  Use  every  bit  of  strength  that 
you  have.  You  understand  how  to  work  the  car  ?  It's 
like  pumping ;  you  work  one  end  of  the  brake  and  I 
work  the  other.  If  you  find  yourself  getting  used  up, 
you  must  sit  down  and  rest,  while  I  work  the  car  alone. 
Now,  before  we  start,  drink  this."  He  gave  her  a  lit 
tle  mescal.  She  took  it  in  entire  obedience. 

"  I  will  try  my  best,  John,"  she  whispered.  "  I  am 
glad  that  you  told  me  to  pray." 

"  Stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  brake.  I'm  going  to 
push  the  car  as  far  as  the  other  side  of  the  bridge.  It 
will  make  less  noise.  Stand  steady — here  we  go." 

They  lost  time  this  way,  but  the  noise  made  by  the 
car  was  very  much  lessened.  If  they  could  get  across 
the  bridge  before  their  departure  was  discovered  they 
would  secure  a  fairly  good  start.  If  they  could  reach 
in  safety  the  top  of  the  long  grade  beyond  the  bridge 
—up  which  their  progress  necessarily  would  be  slow — 
20 


306  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

they  would  be  certain  of  getting  safe  away.  From  the 
top  of  the  divide,  as  Hardy  remembered,  there  was  not 
a  check  in  the  down-grade  to  Las  Palomas,  and  a 
straight  track  all  the  way.  On  this  part  of  the  run — 
if  they  ever  got  to  it  —  Mary  would  not  have  to 
work  at  all.  He  alone,  easily,  could  send  the  car  along 
at  a  rate  of  nearly  twenty  miles  an  hour.  Once  over 
the  divide,  therefore,  the  rescue  of  the  train  would  be 
assured. 

"If — if  anything  should  happen,  Mary,"  Hardy 
said  as  he  started  the  car,  bending  over  toward  her, 
"you'll  remember  that  I  did  love  you  truly,  won't  you? 
And  you'll — you'll  forgive  me  for  my  wickedness  and 
cruelty  to  you  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes,  John,  dear ;  indeed,  yes.  But  please  don't 
speak  to  me  again  until  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  to  work. 
I'm  praying,  John." 

As  the  car  slowly  passed  down  the  line  beyond  the 
station  platform  Hardy  saw  the  light  of  a  lantern 
swinging  in  the  hand  of  some  one  coming  across  from 
the  town.  The  temptation  to  start  the  car  rapidly 
down  the  grade  was  strong,  but  he  restrained  himself. 
Silence  was  more  precious  just  then  than  speed.  Then 
lie  suddenly  realized  that  he  had  done  a  very  stupid 
thing  in  the  way  that  he  had  disposed  of  the  bodies  of 
the  two  Mexicans.  All  that  he  had  thought  of  at  the 
moment  was  hiding  them  from  Mary.  In  the  dark 
ness,  of  course,  she  had  not  seen  them;  but  any  one 
going  on  the  platform  with  a  lantern  would  see  them 
at  once — to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  in  two  or 
three  minutes  more  the  moon  would  rise.  But  he  was 
a  hundred  yards  away  from  the  station  by  this  time. 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS.  3Q7 

The  lantern  was  advancing  rapidly.  There  was  noth 
ing  for  it  but  to  keep  on. 

Hardy  cursed  his  stupidity  as  he  doggedly  pushed 
the  car  ahead  of  him  slowly  and  softly.  They  passed 
the  tank,  looming  up  like  some  strange  huge  creature 
in  the  light  that  preceded  the  moonrise,  and  in  a  minute 
later  came  to  the  bridge.  Here  was  the  greatest  danger, 
for,  no  matter  how  gently  he  pushed  the  car,  the  rumbling 
of  the  wheels  sounded  loudly  on  the  perfect  stillness  of 
the  night.  As  they  left  the  embankment  and  went  out 
on  the  trestle,  the  moon  came  up  above  the  mountains 
with  a  bound,  and  a  Hood  of  brilliant  light  burst  over 
all  the  land.  At  the  same  instant  came  from  the  station 
the  sound  of  shouts  and  cries.  A  moment  later  a  dozen 
shots  were  fired,  as  the  noise  of  the  car-wheels  on  the 
bridge  told  the  direction  in  which  to  look  for  them, 
arid  the  moonlight  striking  on  Mary's  gown  actually 
showed  their  whereabouts.  The  balls  went  singing 
through  the  air  close  above  their  heads. 

Hardy  set  his  teeth  hard  as  he  jumped  on  the  car 
and  took  his  place  at  the  brake.  Mary  grasped  the 
other  end  of  the  bar. 

"  Xow  for  it !  "  he  said.     "  Go  !  " 

Another  volley  of  balls  whistled  by  them  and  above 
them  as  the  car  sprang  forward  ;  and  stray  shots  fol 
lowed  them  until  they  were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  on 
their  way  up  the  long  grade.  But  it  was  wild  shooting 
at  a  moving  mark,  and  did  no  harm.  Mary  was  very 
white,  but  she  was  putting  strength  into  her  \vork — as 
Hardy  could  tell  by  feeling  the  spring  of  the  car  for 
ward  as  her  end  of  the  brakes  went  down.  His  own 
arms  swung  up  and  down  with  the  steadiness  of  the 


30S  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

walking-beam  of  a  steam-engine,  and  with  the  same 
strength  and  tirelessness.  Between  them  they  drove 
the  car  up  the  steep  incline  as  though  they  were  work 
ing  it  along  a  level  grade.  From  the  varying  position 
of  the  flashes  as  the  rifles  were  discharged  they  could 
tell  that  they  were  followed  a  little  way.  Then  the 
shooting  stopped,  and  they  knew  that  pursuit  on  horse 
back  was  being  organized.  But  they  were  cheered  by 
the  knowledge  that  the  first  point  of  danger  was  safely 
passed. 

Hardy  knew  nothing  of  the  trails,  and  so  could  not 
tell  whether  the  pursuit  would  be  directly  along  the 
track,  or  would  be  by  a  short  cut  to  head  them  off.  In 
a  pursuit  along  the  track  they  would  have  a  decided 
advantage,  for  horses  would  stand  a  good  chance  of 
stumbling  on  the  cross-ties,  and  of  breaking  their  own 
legs  and  their  riders'  necks  at  one  or  another  of  the 
many  little  bridges.  Riding  beside  the  track  practically 
was  impossible.  The  embankments  rose  directly  from 
the  chaparral,  and  through  the  cuts  the  way  was  more 
or  less  blocked  by  fragments  of  rock.  Pursuit,  there 
fore,  would  be  slow,  and  would  give  them  the  further 
advantage  that  their  pursuers  Avould  be  clearly  in  sight 
—in  which  case  Hardy  thought  that  he  would  be  able 
to  account  for  two  or  three  of  them  before  he  was  over 
taken.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  trail  ran  parallel  with 
the  track,  as  was  highly  probable,  they  were  liable  at 
any  moment,  until  they  had  crossed  the  crest  of  the 
divide,  to  run  into  a  volley  of  rifle-balls. 

They  could  hear  nothing  but  the  clang  of  the  brake 
as  it  rose  and  fell,  and  the  loud  rattle  of  the  wheels. 
Mary  stood  up  to  her  work  in  a  way  that  filled  Hardy 


SAINT  MARY  OF  THE   ANGELS.  309 

with  wonder.  Her  face  was  absolutely  colorless ;  her 
eyes  seemed  to  have  grown  larger,  and  sent  out  a  strange 
light ;  her  teeth  were  clinched  ;  her  long  golden-brown 
hair  had  broken  loose  from  its  fastenings  and  lmn<j 

o  o 

waving  and  shimmering  around  her  like  a  glory ;  her 
light  dress  fluttered  in  the  moonlight,  stirred  by  the 
rapid  motion  and  the  soft,  strong  current  of  the  night 
wind.  He  never  before  had  thought  of  her  save  as 
one  whose  weakness  required  protection ;  but  he  saw 
her  now  putting  out  strength,  physical  and  moral,  al 
most  as  great  as  his  own.  When  the  balls  went  singing 
over  them  she  had  not  quailed.  In  this  fierce  struggle 
of  bodily  endurance  against  time,  with  their  lives  for 
the  stake,  and  the  saving  of  lives  for  their  reward,  she 
was  keeping  even  stroke  with  him  at  the  brake,  steadily, 
strongly  ;  doini?  work  the  like  of  which  a  woman  had 

O    «,      '  O 

never  done  before.  lie  beheld  her  transformed,  glori 
fied,  a  superb  exaltation  of  weakness  to  heroic  strength. 
Never  had  he  loved  her  as  then. 

As  they  swung  along  through  the  moonlight,  in  that 
vast  solitude  of  night,  it  seemed  to  Hardy  that  they 
were  a  part  of  some  wonderful  tune— partly  played  by 
the  steady  beating  of  the  brakes  and  the  rhythmic  rattle 
of  the  wheels  ;  partly  sung  in  the  buzzing  and  humming 
that  was  going  on  inside  his  own  brain.  Mary's  white 
face  shone  in  the  moonlight  like  polished  marble ;  the 
moonlight  danced  and  sparkled  in  her  gold -brown, 
swaying  hair ;  the  strange  light  grew  brighter  and  yet 
brighter  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  no  sense  of  bodily  effort 
in  his  work;  he  felt  only  in  a  vague,  far-away  fashion, 
that  he  had  any  body  at  all.  He  was  strongly  conscious 
only  of  the  throbbing  tune  that  he  was  a  part  of;  of 


310  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

the  wonderful  light  that  came  from  her  eyes  into  his  — 
and  thence,  sinking  down  into  his  heart,  made  his  whole 
being  go  out  to  hers  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  and  passion  of 
love. 


XL 


a  volley,  but  a  single  rifle-shot  —  and  Mary,  the 
gleaming  light  fading  from  her  eyes,  loosed  her  hold 
of  the  brake  and,  clutching  at  her  breast,  fell  across  the 
car.  Another  shot  grazed  Hardy's  head,  and  a  third 
lightly  cut  the  flesh  of  his  left  arm.  Before  a  fourth 
was  fired  his  own  pistol  cracked,  and  brought  the  en 
gagement  to  an  end.  The  attack  had  come  from  a  man 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  low  cut.  When  the  ball 
from  Hardy's  pistol  struck  him,  he  staggered  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  fell  forward  and  downward  on  the  track. 
As  he  lay  there,  motionless,  the  moonlight  struck  full 
upon  his  upturned  face  —  it  was  Barwood.  Urged  by 
hate  and  anger,  he  had  outridden  all  the  rest,  and  had 
headed  them  off  at  the  last  point  where  heading  off  was 
possible.  The  car  had  stopped  on  the  crest  of  the 
divide. 

Hardy  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  pistol  ready,  in 
expectation  of  further  assault.  But  none  came.  Then 
he  turned  to  Mary,  bending  over  her. 

"You  —  mustn't  —  stop,  John."  Her  words  came 
very  faint  and  brokenly.  "You  must  —  go  on  and  — 
and  save  —  the  train.  You  can  save  it  now." 

Her  hand  still  was  pressed  against  her  breast.  From 
under  where  her  hand  rested  a  dark  stain  was  spreading 
that  looked  black  in  the  moonlight.  The  tones  of  her 


SAINT  MARY  OP  THE  ANGELS.  3H 

voice,  and  the  gasps  with  which  she  spoke,  showed  what 
bitter  agony  each  word  cost  her. 

u  You  must — go  on,"  she  repeated.  "  But  wait — a 
minute,  John.  It  won't  be  longer  than  that.  IS'ot 
longer  than — that." 

Hardy  groaned  in  utter  misery  of  soul.  lie  took 
her  hand.  Already  it  was  chilled.  The  black  stain  on 
her  breast  was  spreading  fast.  In  her  cold  hand  she 
held  his  hand  closely,  and  so  looked  up  at  him.  The 
strange  light  was  gone  from  her  eyes  now.  In  them 
he  saw  another  light,  stronger  for  the  moment  than  the 
fast-gathering  shadows  of  death,  that  told  of  a  most 
tender  and  perfect  love. 

u  Take  me — with  you,  John.  I  would  not  like  to 
stay  here  all — alone.  Truly,  I  did  love — you,  John." 

'•  Oh,  my  God  !  Oh,  my  darling !  This  is  more 
than  I  can  bear !  "  Hardy  cried,  brokenly. 

"Kiss — me,  John.  And  then  you — must  go  on — 
and  save  them.  Kiss  me.  Where  are  you,  John  ?  I 
can't  see  you — 'Squire  Eambo — how  dark— 

As  Hardy  kissed  her  cold  white  forehead  a  shiver 
went  over  her.  Her  arms,  for  a  moment  half  raised, 
fell  heavily.  Over  the  tender  light  that  shone  from  her 
eyes  a  dull  film  came.  Then  all  was  still. 

With  her  white  dead  face  looking  up  at  him ;  with 
her  dead  hand  still  clutched  above  the  black  stain  on 
her  breast ;  with  her  golden-brown  hair  swaying  and 
shimmering  in  the  moonlight,  Mary  lay  stretched  out 
upon  the  car  at  Hardy's  feet,  while  he  sped  forward, 
obeying  her  order,  to  complete  the  rescue  that  now  was 
assured. 


312  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Through  that  great  loneliness  of  night,  to  cadenced 
sound  that  seemed  to  beat  a  requiem,  with  such  sorrow 
in  his  heart  as,  by  God's  mercy,  few  men  are  forced 
to  bear,  this  desolate  lover  went  onward  with  his 
dead. 


IN  the  beautiful  city  of  Monterey,  close  beside  the 
old  Franciscan  convent,  there  stands  a  single  stately 
palm,  larger  and  more  perfect  in  its  growth  than  any 
other  palm  that  you  will  find  in  all  the  country  for 
miles  around.  It  grows  upon  an  odd  corner  of  waste 
land — that  very  likely  was  the  convent  garden  a  couple 
of  hundred  years  or  so  ago — and  behind  it,  across  the 
broad  sweep  of  the  tree-clad  valley,  the  blue  Sierra 
raises  its  jagged  crest  against  the  bluer  sky. 

Instinctively  you  know,  as  you  look  at  this  beautiful 
palm — with  its  waving,  feathery  branches  reared  high 
toward  heaven,  and  its  deep-set  roots  drawing  strength 
from  the  ground  that  the  good  fathers  long  ago  made 
holy  by  their  prayers — that  it  has  a  story  of  some  sort 
to  tell ;  that  a  meaning  attaches  to  its  presence  beside 
the  convent  wall ;  that  it  came  there,  back  in  the  misty 
past,  by  no  mere  idle  chance.  But  among  the  gentle 
folk  of  Monterey  you  will  ask  in  vain  for  this  solitary 
palm's  story.  Culture  and  refinement  somehow  are  at 
war  with  the  sweet  traditions  which  modestly,  along 
quiet  ways,  come  down  to  us  from  times  of  old.  And 
so,  if  you  would  know  the  story  you  must  seek  it  among 
the  humble  dwellers  in  the  town :  the  cargadores,  who 


314  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

carry  heavy  loads  of  other  people's  goods  upon  their 
shoulders;  the  serenos,  who  watch  over  the  safety  of 
the  city  in  the  still,  dark  hours  of  night ;  the  patient 
lefiadores,  who  bring  in  wood,  loaded  upon  yet  more 
patient  burros,  from  the  mountains  near  at  hand,  or  other 
of  the  children  of  toil :  for  all  of  these,  knowing  not  of 
books,  and  busying  themselves  not  with  the  serious 
thoughts  and  concerns  which  vex  the  souls  of  their  bet 
ters,  are  learned  in  legendary  lore.  In  these  simple,  trust 
ful  minds,  illuminating  them  with  a  light  that  brightens 
the  dark  places  of  weary  lives,  the  old  stories  live  on 
through  the  centuries ;  passing  from  lip  to  heart,  from 
heart  to  lip,  and  so  to  heart  again,  yet  gaining  always  a 
more  mellow  beauty  with  the  passing  years.  There 
fore,  it  must  be  among  the  lowly  folk  of  Monterey  that 
you  search  for  the  story  of  the  stately  palm ;  and  if 
your  search  be  well  sped,  you  will  hear  told,  in  the 
gracious  Spanish  of  Mexico — which  is  richer  and 
softer  even  than  is  the  rich,  soft  Spanish  of  Spain— 
this  legend  af  the  Padre  Jose. 

Padre  Jose  was  not  bred  to  the  Church  from  his 
youth.  He  was  the  son  of  the  gallant  soldier  Don 
Diego  de  Yargas,  and  his  profession  was  that  of  his 
father — the  sword.  When  Don  Diego  was  ordered  up 
into  the  rebellious  northern  country — back  in  the  year 
1692  this  was,  before  the  father  of  the  oldest  man  now 
living  was  born — Don  Jose  went  also.  And  this  al 
though  the  day  was  named  for  the  wedding,  and  the 
Dona  Ana  de  Onate,  most  beautiful  of  all  the  maidens 
in  the  realm  of  !New  Spain,  was  waiting  to  be  his  bride. 
As  all  the  world  knows,  there  was  hard  fighting  during 


THE  LEGEND  OP  PADRE  JOSE.  315 

that  campaign.  For  a  dozen  years  the  revolted  Pueb 
los  had  stood  out  against  their  Spanish  masters,  and 
even  Don  Diego,  with  all  his  gallantry  and  with  all  his 
soldierly  skill,  could  not  in  a  moment  conquer  them. 
There  were  battles  at  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Canada,  at  San 
Yldefonso,  at  Taos ;  even  under  the  very  walls  of  Santa 
Fe.  But  the  campaign  ended,  and  Don  Diego  drew  his 
forces  southward  again  for  rest  while  the  winter  lasted, 
and  yet  the  Spaniards  were  not  conquerors.  It  was 
about  the  blessed  Christmas  season — the  noc/ie  buena — 
that  the  sad  news  came  down  to  Dona  Ana,  in  the  city 
of  Mexico,  that  in  one  of  these  battles  with  the  savages 
her  lover  had  been  slain.  And  so,  no  joyfulness  being 
left  to  her  in  life,  she  entered  the  stern  order  of  the 
Capuchinas.  Passing  into  and  so  beyond  the  grave- 
as  was  that  Order's  wont — she  to  the  world  was  dead. 

Through  that  new  year,  and  through  great  part  of  the 
next,  Don  Diego  battled  with  the  Pueblos ;  and  finally, 
having  subdued  them,  he  came  gallantly  home ;  and,  a 
strange  thing !  with  him  came  Don  Jose,  alive  and 
well !  Being  taken  prisoner  in  the  fight  on  the  mesa  be 
fore  San  Yldefonso,  he  had  been  carried  off  into  the 
mountains  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo  and  there  held  for  near 
two  whole  years.  His  was  a  dreary  home-coming,  for 
his  promised  bride  was  wedded  to  the  holy  Church,  and 
so  was  lost  to  him  utterly.  There  was  no  light  of  hope 
left  for  him  in  the  world  at  all.  Terrible  was  Don 
Jose's  raging  agony.  At  last,  in  his  fierce  despair,  he 
cursed  the  holy  Church  for  severing  him  from  his  love. 
But  God  was  merciful  to  this  sinner,  and,  instead  of 
consuming  him  in  a  moment  in  wrathful  flame,  sent  to 
him  a  messenger  of  peace.  That  night  the  blessed  Saint 


316  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

Francis  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  and  told  him  that 
his  dread  sin  would  be  pardoned  and  even,  in  the  end, 
rest  from  his  tierce  sorrow  would  be  given  him,  if  he 
would  devote  his  life  to  God's  service  in  saving  heathen 
souls.  Therefore,  Don  Jose  entered  the  Order  of  the 
Franciscans.  Nor  did  he,  as  is  the  wont  of  those  who 
enter  the  religious  life,  change  his  name.  As  Jose,  he 
said,  he  had  sinned ;  and  as  Jose  he  would  work  out,  in 
deeds  meet  for  repentance,  his  full  forgiveness.  And 
as  Jose  is  a  name  most  holy,  and  most  beloved  in  the 
Church/  there  was  none  to  cavil. 

Because  there  were  few  heathen  thereabouts,  but 
more  because  he  felt  that  he  could  be  stronger  in  his 
faith  and  work  if  widely  separated  from  his  dead  yet 
living  love,  Padre  Jose  asked  to  be  sent  out  from  the 
City  of  Mexico  into  some  far  corner  of  the  land.  And 
so  it  fell  out  that  he  was  sent  to  make  his  home  in 
the  old  Franciscan  convent  here  in  the  city  of  Monte 
rey  Even  in  the  first  year  of  his  service  many  were 
the  wandering  souls  that  his  love  and  gentleness  and 
great  compassion  brought  safe  to  shelter  in  the  good 
care  of  God. 

Yet  for  a  long  while  there  was  only  sorrow  in  the 
heart  of  Padre  Jose\  His  good  works  gladdened 
others,  but  himself  they  made  not  glad  ;  for  always 
rose  up  between  him  and  happiness  the  memory  of  his 
lost  love.  His  was  a  gentle,  clinging  nature — albeit  a 
most  gallant  one,  as  his  brave  deeds  of  arms  time  and 
again  had  shown — and  the  need  for  a  personal  love  was 
strong  within  him.  There  was  a  holy  comfort  in  his 
love  of  the  good  God,  and  in  his  love  of  working  for 
His  dear  sake ;  but  this  touched  only  the  spiritual  side 


THE  LEGEND  OF   PADRE  JOSE. 

of  his  nature,  and  left  his  human  longing  for  something 
real,  that  he  might  tend  and  cherish,  and,  if  need  be, 
spend  his  life  for,  all  unsatisfied.  While  this  blank  in 
his  being  remained  unfilled,  there  was  nothing  to  check 
the  return  of  his  love  to  the  dear  one  who  had  passed 
from  him  into  the  bosom  of  the  Church ;  of  whom,  even 
to  think,  as  he  but  too  well  knew,  was  deadly  sin.  So 
his  soul  was  wrenched  and  torn  within  him  by  this 
ever-recurring  conflict  between  his  holy  duty  and  his 
human  love. 

Therefore  it  came  to  pass  that  the  kind  God,  seeing 
how  loyally  the  Padre  Jose  strove  to  do  his  duty,  and 
how  bitter  hard  that  duty  was  to  do,  one  day  took  pity 
upon  him  and  lightened  his  heavy  load. 

Beneath  the  hot  sun  that  beats  down  so  fiercely  here 
in  the  long  summer  time,  making  the  air  one  quivering 
cloud  of  scorching  heat,  Padre  Jose  came  slowly  across 
the  valley  toward  the  town.  He  came  from  the  little 
chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe,  over  on  the  first  of 
the  foot-hills  ;  and  his  heart  was  heavy,  for  few,  and 
careless  of  its  meaning,  were  the  Indians  who  had  come 
to  his  celebration  of  the  mass.  The  distance  from  the 
chapel  to  the  convent  is  but  a  mile — a  trifling  walk  on 
one  of  the  cool,  crisp,  October-like  days  which  serve 
•  for  winter  here  in  Monterey.  But  beneath  that  sum 
mer  sun  even  a  strong  man  would  have  grown  faint  and 
weary — if  he  had  not  fallen  outright  by  the  way.  The 
strength  of  Padre  Jose  was  given  so  largely  to  the 
service  of  God  that  but  little  remained  for  his  own 
needs ;  and  so,  midway  in  his  weary  walk,  coming  to  a 
place  where  a  tangle  of  mesquites  cast  a  warm  shadow 


318  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

— that  yet,  in  contrast  with  the  fiery  sunshine,  was  re 
freshingly  cool — he  thankfully  cast  himself  down  upon 
the  ground  for  rest. 

Close  beside  where  lie  sat  was  a  field  just  cleared  for 
planting,  and  along  the  newly  made  acequia  the  brown 
water  was  moving  slowly,  and  was  giving  great  solace 
to  the  thirsty  land.  It  is  thought  by  some  that  the 
large  field  set  about  with  palmas,  on  the  slope  below 
the  chapel  of  Guadalupe,  is  the  very  field  beside  which 
Padre  Jose  rested  that  day.  "Whether  this  be  truth — 
as  it  well  may  be — or  only  a  fancy,  we  may  not  know ; 
but  it  surely  is  true  that  while  the  Padre  sat  there  rest 
ing  he  saw  lying  in  the  dust  of  the  wayside,  where  it 
had  been  carelessly  tossed  when  plucked  up  from  the 
ground,  a  little  palm-tree  scarce  a  span  long — a  thin, 
green  shoot,  rudely  wrested  from  the  place  where  it  had 
begun  its  innocent,  joyous  life,  and  thus  cast  forth  to 
die.  At  first  the  Padre,  worn  by  the  heat  and  by  the 
sorrow  of  his  heart,  thought  not  at  all  of  this  poor  little 
palm  on  which  his  eyes  rested  idly.  And  when,  pres 
ently,  he  perceived  its  presence,  and  understood  its  evil 
plight,  there  came  for  it  no  compassion  into  his  heart. 
He  even,  for  a  little  space,  felt  a  cruel  pleasure  in  watch 
ing  it  lie  shriveling  there  in  the  scorching  sunshine, 
while  he  sat  resting  in  the  shade — so  hard  and  bitter 
was  his  mood. 

But  such  wicked  feelings  as  these  could  not  long  find 
harbor  in  the  Padre's  breast.  Soon  a  sense  of  great 
shame,  and  of  horror  at  his  own  sinfulness,  came  over 
him ;  and  he  rose  up,  praying  that  he  might  be  for 
given,  and  that  he  might,  with  God's  good  help,  save 
the  little'  palm's  life.  Through  the  blistering  sunshine 


THE  LEGEND  OF  PADRE  JOSE.  319 

— forgetful  that  his  hood  had  fallen  back  from  off  his 
tonsured  head — he  carried  the  sorrowful  little  tree  to 
the  ace  quid,  and  plunged  it  into  the  refreshment  of  the 
slow-moving  brown  water,  and  held  it  there  tenderly 
until  the  pitiful  limpness  vanished  from  the  tiny  leaves 
and  there  was  something  of  firmness  in  the  pale-green 
stem.  And  he  felt  that  this  mourning  thing,  now  made 
joyful,  was  offering  its  thanks  to  him.  Then,  in  some 
soft  moss  that  he  found  beneath  the  grove  of  mesquites, 
well  wet,  so  that  a  grateful  dampness  might  be  had  for 
the  rest  of  the  hot  walk,  he  enwrapped  it  lovingly,  and 
so  set  off  once  more  for  the  town.  Not  until  he  sat  rest 
ing  in  his  still,  cool  cell,  the  little  palm,  meanwhile,  hav 
ing  been  planted  in  the  rich  earth  of  the  convent  gar 
den,  and  carefully  shaded  from  the  sun  until  its  strength 
should  come  again,  did  Padre  Jose  realize  that  in  light 
ening  the  troubles  of  this  forsaken  tree  he  had  for  a 

o 

brief  space  wholly  ceased  to  feel  the  weight  of  his  own. 
And  as  he  prayed  there,  in  the  shady  stillness  of  his 
cell,  the  thought  came  into  his  heart  that  God,  in  his 
infinite  goodness  and  mercy,  had  sent  him  this  little 
palm  that  he  might  have  something  to  love.  Being  yet 
upon  his  knees,  he  prayed  from  out  the  depths  of  his 
simple,  trustful  soul  that  this  good  gift  might  indeed  be 
his,  and  that  the  little  palm  might  live. 

And  the  palm  did  live.  From  day  to  day,  from 
week  to  week,  as  Padre  Jose  tended  it  lovingly  and 
faithfully,  praying  the  while  for  its  well-being  with  the 
same  trusting  faith  that  he  was  wont  to  pray  for  the 
saving  of  heathen  souls,  it  grew  and  flourished  ;  and  it 
rejoiced  in  the  strength  of  its  regained  life  with  a  visi 
ble  gladness  that  was  reflected  into  and  that  gladdened 


320  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

his  own  sorrowing  heart.  When  the  weariness  of  his 
labor  rested  heavily  upon  him ;  when  a  dark  despond 
ency  seized  him  and  the  thought  weighed  upon  his  soul 
that  his  work  among  the  heathen  was  in  vain,  and  that 
should  he  die  no  one  would  have  been  the  better  for  his 
life  or  would  be  the  worse  for  his  death — then  stealing 
in  upon  this  darkness  of  sorrow  would  come  the  sweet 
consciousness  that  the  palm  lived,  and  loved  him,  and 
depended  upon  him.  And  the  other,  the  human  love 
that  so  wrenched  and  tormented  him,  and  that  could 
not,  in  its  very  nature,  be  cast  out  of  his  being,  was 
tempered  and  chastened  by  this  purer  love.  When,  in 
the  early  morning,  and  again  in  the  evening's  dusk,  he 
came  to  his  palm  and  ministered  to  its  wants — giving  it 
draughts  of  sweet  water,  heaping  rich  earth  about  its 
roots,  pruning  away  its  too-luxuriant  leaves  so  that  its 
life  might  be  concentrated  and  strengthened  for  a  more 
vigorous  growth — the  memory  of  his  early,  passionate 
love  would  come  back  to  him,  but  comfortingly,  being 
purified.  And  as  he  went  about  his  holy  work  by  day, 
the  thought  of  the  little  tree  that  loved  him  and  that 
waited  for  his  return  at  night,  upheld  and  strengthened 
him. 

The  palm,  for  its  part,  repaid  the  care  that  Padre 
Jose  gave  it  by  growing  as  never  palm  grew  before. 
Its  slim  stem  became  thick  and  sturdy ;  its  gracious 
leaves  spread  out  in  a  feathery  crest,  and  everywhere 
upon  it  were  the  signs  of  a  rich,  abundant  life. 

So  the  months  slipped  silently  away,  and  were  lost 
in  the  depths  of  the  passing  years,  and  the  palm  shot 
up  and  became  a  strong,  beautiful  tree ;  and  because  of 
its  existence  there  came  to  be,  if  not  happiness,  at  least 


THE  LEGEND  OF  PADRE  JOSE.  321 

a  refreshing  love  that  bred  peace  in  the  heart  of  Padre 
Jose.  And  so  was  fulfilled  the  promise  that  God  made 
to  him,  speaking  by  the  blessed  St.  Francis  in  the 
vision. 

Thus  more  than  a  score  of  years  passed  on.  Through 
all  this  time  the  Padre  Jose  gave  of  his  strength  freely  in 
his  holy  work,  and  many  heathen  souls  were  saved  which, 
but  for  his  zealous  labor,  surely  would  have  been  lost. 
His  palm  long  since  had  outgrown  the  need  for  his  care 
for  it,  and  now,  in  its  turn,  cared  for  him — even  as  his 
sturdy  son,  being  come  to  man's  estate,  might  have  cared 
for  him  had  it  pleased  Heaven  to  satisfy  his  human  love. 
It  was  a  noble  tree  now  ;  and  against  its  foot  he  had  made 
a  seat,  where  he  would  come  in  the  early  morning,  and 
again  as  the  sun  went  down,  for  rest  and  comforting. 
And  the  palm,  swaying  a  little  in  the  evening  breeze, 
would  press  its  trunk  against  him  lovingly,  and  soft 
whisperings  of  its  thankfulness  for  the  life  that  he  had 
given  it  would  come  down  to  him  from  its  rustling, 
feathery  leaves.  When  he  was  sad,  thinking  of  the  wea 
riness  of  life  and  of  all  the  sorrow  that  there  was  there 
in,  the  palm-leaves  rustled  to  him  mournfully  in  echo  of 
the  mourning  that  was  in  his  heart.  Yet,  impercepti 
bly,  the  tone  of  their  murmurings  would  change,  bring 
ing  into  his  heart  more  and  more  of  brightness. 

At  other  times,  when  the  memory  of  his  lost  love 
on  earth  would  come  back  to  him  and  fill  him  with  a 
dreary  sadness,  the  palm  would  whisper  of  its  own  love 
and  faithfulness.  It  would  tell  of  its  bitter  sorrow  as 
it  lay  in  the  scorching  sunshine  by  the  wayside  where 
lie  found  it  cast  out  to  die,  and  of  its  joy  when  his 
hands  gave  it  water  to  drink  and  shielded  it  in  the  cool, 
21 


322  STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

damp  moss,  and  gave  it,  too,  there  in  the  convent  gar 
den,  a  safe  refuge  where  it  might  rejoice  in  its  new 
found  life. 

Now  it  came  to  pass,  at  the  end  of  many  years,  that 
a  pestilence  fell  upon  the  city — a  deadly  fever  that  rose 
up  from  the  earth  and  that  caused  many  to  die ;  such  a 
fever  as  never  before  was  known,  and,  mercifully,  never 
since  has  been  known  here  in  Monterey.  In  every  house 
was  the  shadow  of  death.  The  fathers  of  the  convent 
were  instant  in  good  works  among  the  sick  ;  and  even, 
that  they  might  have  more  time  to  save  the  living, 
they  forbore  for  a  season  to  say  masses  for  the  dead. 
Only  each  morning  and  each  night  the  towns-folk  in 
whom  was  left  strength  to  walk,  came  to  the  church 
of  St.  Francis,  and  there,  together  with  the  good 
fathers,  sent  up  their  prayers  that  the  pestilence  might 
be  stayed. 

And  when  the  deaths  grew  many,  and  there  was  sore 
need  for  yet  more  nurses  for  the  sick,  the  convent  of 
the  Capuchinas  opened  its  doors,  and  the  holy  nuns 
came  forth  and  gave  their  aid.  (The  Holy  Father  gave 
them  grace  and  fullest  absolution  when,  in  the  after- 
years,  their  prayer  for  pardon  went  to  Rome.)  The 
blessed  presence  and  sweet  gentleness  of  these  saintly 
nuns  brought  comfort  into  many  a  stricken  house  in 
that  most  dreary  time.  But — such  was  the  division 
of  their  work  among  the  sick — the  Franciscanos  and 
the  Capuchinas  rarely  met. 

Faithful  was  Padre  Jose  in  caring  for  the  sick,  and 
in  consoling,  in  the  name  of  the  blessed  saints,  those 
whose  sickness  was  even  unto  death.  Almost  his  only 


THE  LEGEND  OF  PADRE  JOBS',  323 

rest  was  the  little  space,  morning  and  evening,  when  he 
sat  beneath  his  palm.  And  being,  after  his  many  years 
of  zealous  labor,  but  a  frail  man,  and  going  thus  con 
stantly  into  those  places  where  the  pestilence  was  at  its 
worst,  the  time  came  when  he  himself  felt  that  the  fever 
had  him  in  its  hold  ;  and  his  heart  was  gladdened,  for 
he  knew  that  now  his  rest  would  come. 

Close  upon  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  feeling 
then  that  his  release  was  near,  he  asked  that  they  would 
carry  him  out  beyond  the  convent  walls  into  the  garden, 
and  place  him  in  the  seat  beneath  his  palm,  and  leave 
him  there. 

Beautiful  is  the  evening  in  Monterey.  "When  the 
sun  has  sunk  beyond  the  crest  of  the  noble  Mitras  a 
great  burst  of  red  and  golden  glory  leaps  up  into  the 
gky  and  for  a  long  time  hangs  quivering  there  above 
the  mountains.  Clouds  of  gorgeous  coloring  float  be 
yond  the  Sierra  and  outline  its  somber,  jagged  ridge 
against  their  rich  splendor ;  and  through  the  clefts  be 
tween  the  peaks  broad  rays  of  light  shoot  out  across  the 
valley,  and  bathe  the  farther  mountains  in  a  liquid 
flame.  And  even  more  beautiful,  or,  perhaps,  only 
differently  beautiful,  is  the  time,  a  little  after  this, 
when  the  glorious  magnificence  has  vanished  from 
the  sky,  and  in  its  place  have  come  subdued,  deli 
cious  colorings— echoes  of  the  splendor  that  has  passed 
away. 

And  Padre  Jose,  sitting  beneath  his  palm,  with  the 
fever  quite  gone  from  him — for  it  had  done  its  work — 
thanked  God  in  his  heart  that  this  most  perfect  earthly 
beauty  should  be  his  last  sight  of  earth.  It  was  a  fit 
prelude,  as  he  whispered  to  the  palm — his  head  resting, 


324  STORIES  OP  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 

as  for  years  lie  had  been  wont  as  he  sat  there  to  rest  it, 
against  the  palm's  loving  trunk — for  the  sight  yet  more 
beautiful,  being  heavenly,  that  would  be  his  so  soon. 
Dreamily  he  whispered  his  thankfulness  for  all  that  the 
palm  had  been  to  him ;  for  all  its  constant  tenderness 
and  love  through  these  long  years.  Then  the  cool  even 
ing  wind,  which  sweeps  down  from  the  mountains  at 
the  end  of  the  hot  days  and  brings  with  it  a  most  de 
lectable  refreshment,  passed  softly  through  the  palm- 
leaves,  and  made  again  the  old,  sweet  story  of  the  palm- 
tree's  gratitude  and  love.  And,  possessing  none  of  the 
selfishness  that  goes  with,  if,  indeed,  it  be  not  the  very 
essence  of  all  human  love,  the  palm-tree  murmured  its 
own  joyfulness  that  the  time  had  come  when  the  one 
whom  it  loved  so  truly  would  cease  to  be  acquainted 
with  sorrow,  and  would  know  only  the  perfect  happi 
ness  of  an  endless,  holy  peace. 

Then  the  Padre  whispered  again,  or  it  may  be  that 
this  thought  was  framed  only  in  his  heart,  his  longing 
to  see  the  Dona  Anna  yet  once  more  before  his  eyes 
forever  closed  to  things  of  earth.  And,  lo !  as  this 
longing  rested  upon  his  soul,  there  came  to  the  open 
gate  of  the  convent  garden — being  led  thither,  surely, 
by  God's  good  grace  —  a  holy  nun;  and,  looking  on 
her  face,  the  Padre  Jose  knew  that  for  the  little  time 
of  life  yet  left  to  him  the  love  that  he  had  lost  was 
found ! 

So  she  sat  beside  him,  beneath  the  palm,  stroking  his 
cold  hand  lovingly ;  yet  with  a  love  chastened  by  long 
suffering:  of  love's  lack,  and  now  sanctified  because  it 

O 

welled  out  anew  toward  one  upon  whom  rested  visibly 
the  hand  of  death.     Together  they  talked  of  the  long 


THE  LEGEND  OF  PADRE  JOSE.  325 

years  which,  in  their  severed  lives,  would  have  been 
dead  years  but  for  the  life  that  had  come  to  each  from 
a  living  love  of  God  ;  and,  as  they  talked,  Padre  Jose 
came  to  know  that  in  all  this  dreary  time  she  had  not 
been  afar  from  him,  but  near  at  hand,  watching  over 
him  as  an  angel  might  have  watched,  and  rejoicing  in 
the  fair  perfection  of  his  holy  work.  For  she  had 
prayed  that  she  might  be  sent  to  where  he  was ;  and  her 
prayer  had  been  granted  through  a  firm  confidence  in 
her  loyal  faith  to  the  higher  love  which  she  had  pro 
fessed  in  binding  herself  by  her  Order's  holy  vows. 

Slowly  the  splendor  of  the  sky  and  mountains  faded 
into  the  mellow  half-tints  and  subtle  blendings  of  deli 
cate  colorings  through  which  the  gracious  sunlight 
passes  before  it  is  lost  in  the  dark  depths  of  night.  As 
she  cherished  it  between  her  own  warm  hands  the  hand 
of  Padre  Jose  grew  yet  more  cold  ;  and  she  knew  how 
little  was  left  to  him  of  life. 

Presently,  as  the  light  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
as  the  spirit  of  Padre  Jose  grew  less  and  less  a  thing  of 
earth,  so  near  to  heaven  had  it  come,  there  sounded 
through  the  stillness  of  the  evening  air  the  ringing  of 
the  angelus  :  a  low,  tremulous  ringing,  for  the  ringer  in 
the  tower  was  worn  with  much  toil  and  watching,  and 
scarce  had  strength  left  in  him  to  sound  the  call  to 
prayer.  There  was  a  wailing  melancholy,  yet  a  deep 
tenderness  in  the  faint  ringing  of  this  sweet  bell,  as 
though  it  mourned — yet  with  a  great  compassion,  in 
which  was  hope. 

And  as  its  dying  tones  vibrated  softly  through  the 
dusky  air,  there  went  a  shivering  rustle  through  the 
branches  of  the  deserted  palm,  there  came  a  thrill  of 


326 


STORIES  OF  OLD  NEW  SPAIN. 


mortal  agony  into  a  lonely  woman's  heart — for  the 
spirit  of  Padre  Jose,  leaving  poor,  earthly  love  behind 
it,  and  leaving  behind  it  harsh  earthly  toil  and  care,  had 
passed  hence  into  the  perfect  love  of  heaven,  into  the 
perfect  and  eternal  rest. 


THE    END. 


'  V 


DATE  DUE 


HUb. 

^W6\ 

RE 

CD  AUG  1  6 

1976 

CAYLORD 

"'NTCO.NU.S-A. 

3  1970  00287  6693 


A    000  546  069     6 


